Prologue

Aurim, City of Songs

The city sparkled like a jewel on the banks of the River Ush. It was a sprawl of marble and lapis, adorned with domes and statues and bridges of shining gold. Flowers of crimson and flame spilled across its gardens, and soldiers riding hippogriffs wheeled above its bustling streets and markets, where men and dwarves and elves from all over Taladas thronged. The rain had just stopped, and steam rose from the rooftops as the sun baked them dry.

Beyond the city’s walls, for league upon league, spread green fields and golden hills, ripe with rice and grapes and olives, food enough to sate a continent. The Ush wound its way across the swelling land, a broad silver rope that flowed west toward the shining Indanalis Sea. Away to the north, the river stretched toward an arm of mountains that loomed purple in the morning mist. Cool breezes blew from that direction, rustling leaves and men’s cloaks.

Nowhere else in Taladas was there such a city as Aurim—perhaps nowhere on Krynn, though the priests of Istar, far across the sea, might have argued the point. This was the pinnacle of civilization, of learning, of art and music, in all the world. But Maladar an-Desh, its rightful ruler, looked down on his city from the highest tower of his palace and saw only swine rooting through rubbish. It could be greater, more glorious, than this. It should be. He needed only time—time he did not have.

Today, he thought as the wind billowed his robes. He reached up to touch the hem of his hood, the hood that never fell unless he desired it. Today they will come to kill me.

One could rightly say he deserved to die. Even Maladar, in his black heart, had to admit that truth. Had he not done terrible things? Had he not made powerful enemies? How many thousands had perished in the Square of Spears before the palace and on battlefields far away for the glory of the City of Songs and its emperor? He could not count, not anymore. But they were many, and men remembered. Over time the memories of his enemies had cooled into hate. Assassins had tried to kill him more than a dozen times in the century since he’d wrested control of the empire. They had always failed. But this time… today… they would succeed.

He foresaw his death—first in dreams, then later confirmed in a scrying-pool filled with the blood of his servants, a hundred men whose throats he’d cut for that one spell. He’d seen his own body, lying twisted in agony on the floor of his throne room as the midday sun shone through its high, sapphire windows, his kicking legs tangled in the folds of his blue and golden robes. He’d watched his hands clench like claws, his back arch, then the slow, smooth relaxation, the breath letting out. Then there was nothing.

That had been a year ago. The dreams had stopped after a while, and he could divine no more, no matter how much blood he spilled into the pool. He did not know who would kill him, or why, or how. But he knew where and when. He might have tried to run, to hide in one of the other cities in the far-flung provinces of his empire, but Maladar was not that kind of man. He had gained his power by facing his problems. He would not run.

He had made plans, however.

Someone stirred behind him. He turned, a dozen spells flashing through his mind. Maladar was the mightiest archmage Taladas had ever known, and though Nuvis, the black moon, was waning, he still had the power to kill an army if he must. It was no army that stood behind him, though, only a boy of eight summers, a barbarian slave who served him.

The boy kept his almond eyes downcast, never gazing directly at Maladar. He was deeply tanned, his head shaven except for a lone braid that trailed down from its crown—the mark of the Uigan, a tribe that dwelt on Aurim’s edges, with whom the empire had warred for millennia. This boy was the son of the Boyla, the Uigan’s ruler, whom Maladar had captured in battle five years ago. The Boyla and his elder sons had died screaming, in pits deep beneath the City of Songs. He had sent their heads back to the Uigan, their braids cut off and stuffed in their mouths as a mark of shame. But this one he had kept as his cupbearer and hostage, both to stay any thoughts of vengeance the steppe-riders might harbor, and for his own… amusement.

“Shai,” Maladar murmured, his voice a low and unpleasant gargle. “I did not summon you.”

The boy bowed his head further, never looking up—never. “Even so, Majesty,” he said, “the Seven Swords await you below. They seek audience.”

Had he been capable, Maladar might have raised an eyebrow. “The Seven? Here?”

Shai nodded. “Caspa sent me to fetch you. She felt it better that she keep watch over them.”

“Caspa is wise,” Maladar said, his mind rushing. So it was the Seven who would seek to slay him today, and they would succeed if the blood-vision were to be believed.

The Seven made a kind of sense. They were the mightiest warriors in all of Aurim, ruthless men who commanded its armies and governed its border marches, keeping safe the rich, well-fed provinces at the empire’s heart. He had thought them among his allies, for he always made sure to give them what they wanted, whether it was gold or slaves or land. He’d once drowned an entire city—Am Durn, it was called—and given the undamaged surrounding fiefs as a gift to Iadro, the mightiest of the Seven. But such men were ambitious and surely coveted the throne.

“Majesty?” asked Shai. “Shall I have Caspa bid them leave?”

Maladar shook his head. “No, boy. I will be down in a moment.”

The boy touched his forehead, a show of deference, then left. When he was gone, Maladar turned to look out across the city once more. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind: a feeling that he would not gaze upon Aurim again… not in this life, anyway.

The wind tugged at his robes again, and he pulled down his hood. Then he whirled and stalked back into the halls of his palace to meet his death.

They were waiting for him in the throne room, a vast, vaulted hall with a floor of tiled moonstone and golden pillars the size of trees. They stood at its far end, beyond the play of light through jeweled windows, beyond the burbling silver fountains and Neroni feathered serpents, coiled in hanging cages of crystal. Maladar emerged from the tower stair behind his throne of carved dragon horn, which stood upon a dais amid a wide pool filled with glowing, golden fish. He walked forward to stand by his seat, resting his hand upon its arm. He tried to look untroubled as Caspa, his chamberlain—an aged elf woman who had served Aurim’s emperors for five centuries—crossed the floor. Her spidersilk slippers made no sound.

“Shai tells me I have guests,” Maladar said. He nodded toward the boy, who stood on the far side of the pool. “Bring wine, lad—the Chakani green. We should drink to welcome such august company.”

“The Seven, Majesty,” Caspa said as Shai withdrew to do his master’s bidding. “I asked them to give up their weapons, but they refused.”

“And so they should,” said Maladar, stepping forward. He crossed an invisible bridge, hidden just beneath the pool’s surface, which made him seem for a moment to be walking on water. “These are not common foot soldiers, Caspa; they are the right arm of the empire! Let them keep their blades and come forward.”

The throne room was two hundred paces across, so Maladar had time to think as Caspa went to fetch the Seven. He watched them approach: Iadro, in his enameled crimson armor; Bann the Lofty, seven and a half feet tall with a sword just as big slung across his back; Dreskith of Eöl, whose long beard was dyed the blue of deep water; Farashi Ogrebane, who had a golden left hand and was said to be half dwarf; Ettam and Ettor, twin brothers who fought with knives only; and a whip-thin, veiled warrior simply called Whisper, who never spoke. Maladar watched them come, wondering which would land the killing blow. He doubted it would be Iadro; he was the cleverest general of the lot but not the quickest blade. If he had to lay gold on any of them, it would be Dreskith… or possibly Whisper. With that one, it was always hard to tell.

He hoped to send a few to the Abyss before he fell. If Hith were merciful, he would manage all seven.

“How, then, have you come here?” he asked as the Seven drew near. “Long has it been since all of you have graced my halls together. Is there trouble in the marches? I had hoped for a summer free of war, but if the armies must march…”

“War does not bring us, Majesty,” said Iadro. He was smiling; Iadro always smiled, though his eyes glinted like diamond daggers. “Strange tidings have reached our ears, and we have come to parley with you about them.”

The men stopped, standing side by side, far enough apart from each other that he couldn’t hope to kill them all with a single spell, not without bringing down the palace in the bargain. They knew what they were doing today. None had laid a hand near his weapon yet, but they were ready.

“Tidings?” asked Maladar. “Of what sort?”

“A secret army,” said Bann, folding massive arms across his massive chest. “A force you have gathered in the eastern provinces, far from our lands.”

There was a moment’s silence in the throne room as Maladar thought: so, they know. Then he spread his hands. “Please, brothers. I know of no secret army. And why would I gather forces in the east, where peace has reigned since the Dynasty of Nûr?”

“Yes,” said Ettam, frowning, “why, indeed?”

“We were hoping you would tell us,” said Ettor, matching his brother’s glower.

Dreskith, ever the voice of reason among the Seven, held up a hand to stay the hot-headed twins. “Do not play us for fools, Majesty,” he said, stroking his beard. “We know you are smarter than that. We have sent spies to the east. All returned with the same tale: you are raising an army. We may not have learned where or who these warriors are to our satisfaction, but the news is true.”

“We have ways of making sure those we question do not lie,” added Farashi with an evil grin.

Whisper said nothing, only stood there, cracking his knuckles one at a time.

Maladar looked at them, from one to the next. “I had hoped you wouldn’t learn of this,” he murmured. “Not yet, at least.”

“I bet you did,” said Ettor.

Iadro shook his head. “Majesty, you must understand what we have to think about this army. There is only one reason to muster such a thing in the east when we command so many thousands of men on your western borders.”

“You mean to make war on us,” said Bann.

Then Maladar began to laugh.

The Seven bristled at that, for it was not scornful laughter that growled from beneath the Faceless Emperor’s hood, but a gust of genuine mirth. Maladar shook his head. “Oh, my friends,” he said. “Do not be angry when I tell you that you have ridden all this way for nothing! My eastern army is no threat to you… or to any living man.”

Ettor snorted at that while the others exchanged glances.

“What do you mean, Majesty?” asked Dreskith. “How can an army be of no threat? What good would such a force be?”

Maladar stepped back, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I can show you if you wish.”

The Seven were silent. They looked at one another. Ettor and Ettam shook their heads. Farashi made a forked sign with his fingers, a ward against evil, which was laughable considering how many vile things he had done to his enemies. Bann shrugged. Whisper, of course, said nothing. Dreskith leaned close to Iadro and murmured in his ear. Finally, the leader of the Seven nodded and took a single step forward, smiling his cold smile.

“I presume,” he said, “that you mean to use magic to do this.”

Maladar inclined his head.

“Know that you will rue any trickery, Majesty,” Iadro replied, “but not for long.”

“I do not doubt it,” Maladar purred. “But come now, my friends. We have done this before, many times, at your war councils. Have I not shown you our enemies and how they would array themselves? Have I not revealed the weaknesses of their keeps and cities? How, then, is this time different?”

Another silence answered him. Armor rattled as the Seven shifted from foot to foot. They looked to Iadro now, and he sighed, for the first time showing the burden of being the leader of such a band.

“So, then,” he said, gesturing for Maladar to begin.

The spell came easily to mind; Maladar had cast it hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times over the course of his reign. Even with the black moon’s power flowing sluggishly, he shaped it with ease, his silken robes fluttering as his hands danced in the air and he spoke the spidery words. The air shimmered around him, as the plains did on hot summer days. Most of the warriors rested their hands on their weapons, ready to draw them the moment anything went awry. Maladar paid them no mind, throwing himself into the magic instead.

He had cast the spell before, hundreds of times, but never quite like this. Today there was other magic, hidden within the weave of the first, magic that might save him… if the Seven did not sense it, if Hith willed it, if he was lucky.

Images of his twitching body, rippling in the bloody scrying pool, flashed through his mind. He knew his luck would run bad. Fate was fate; it could not be denied.

There was no more time for such thoughts, however; the end of the spell had come. He swept his hands around him, and black, smoky mist trailed from his fingers. The mist hung in the air, then seemed to come alive, swirling and eddying and finally coalescing into shapes. The Seven watched it happen. Dreskith had half-drawn his scimitar, and the twins had their knives in hand, but they all relaxed once the spell took shape. They settled back, sheathing their weapons as the smoke grew solid and the hall around them changed.

The throne room was no more; the moonstone tiles, the pillars and pools and fountains all had vanished. Instead, they stood in a cave of dark, reddish stone—a cave carved by sorcery, not flowing water or the hands of men. They were on a promontory, an outcrop that looked out over a wide, flat floor beneath a dome-shaped ceiling.

“Behold my secret army,” said Maladar.

And yes, there was an army in this room. Tens of thousands of soldiers stood arrayed in rows, clad in full armor and bearing swords, bows, and spears. Each of the soldiers was as tall as Bann, perhaps even taller. Full helmets, shaped into the visages of dragons, covered their faces.

But the soldiers were not made of flesh.

“Statues?” murmured Farashi.

Maladar nodded. The soldiers were hewn from dark gray stone—like the cave, made by magic, not mortal hands.

“What is this?” Iadro asked. “Where is this place?”

“I will not tell you where,” Maladar said. “I keep this vault secret from all. I would not have anyone know the whereabouts of my tomb.”

“Tomb?” Ettor echoed.

“Thinking of dying soon?” asked Ettam.

Maladar shrugged. “All men die,” he said. “I have ruled Aurim a long time. It would be foolish not to prepare for the day when my reign ends.”

That was only a partial truth. Maladar had not delved this cave, had not sculpted the statues, until after the blood-vision. It had taken two months of spell-casting, months that had left him exhausted. And the last stage had taken as long as all the rest combined. He stepped aside, letting the Seven see what he had wrought.

Standing upon the promontory, looking down on the stone army, was the final statue of shining black rock. It was only slightly larger than a man, but it seemed to swell with power, to suck the light and warmth out of the cave. It was the exact image of Maladar himself, cloaked and hooded as always.

“My resting place,” he murmured, reaching out a gloved hand to touch the statue’s surface.

The Seven stared in awe. If he could, Maladar would have smiled; instead, he nodded his head and wriggled the fingers of his right hand, just slightly, and let the second spell break free of the weave.

Dreskith was the first; Maladar had chosen him, as the best swordsman, to die before the others. He had no time to speak, no time to move, before the magic took hold. His eyes simply widened, and he fell to his knees with an awful crack. Then his skin split open, like a hundred whips had struck him at once, and he was screaming, covered in blood as his body flayed itself open, right down to the bone. His hands clawed the air. His bright blue beard turned deep violet. He fell face-first onto the floor in tatters.

The rest of the Seven reacted as Maladar knew they would; Bann, Iadro, and Farashi were momentarily stunned by what had happened to their sword-brother. Whisper and the twins, however, moved quicker. Ettor and Ettam had already drawn their daggers again: long, curved blades etched with glowing runes, the better to cut through armor and magic alike. They leaped forward, their faces alive with feral glee.

Had they been two steps closer, they might have accomplished their goal. Instead, Maladar extended a hand and the twins burst, their skin ripping and sloughing away like Dreskith’s had. Their enchanted knives clattered to the floor; then they followed, howling in agony and clutching at their hideous wounds.

Maladar cast about, looking for Whisper, but the veiled warrior was nowhere to be seen, and the others were moving, recovered from their shock. Swords in hand, Iadro and Bann and Farashi swept toward him. Again, the stupid fools were too far away. He killed each of them, Bann last of all as the giant’s greatsword was sweeping upward to deliver a blow that would have cut him in half. Maladar had to step aside to keep Bann’s shrieking, skinless body from falling on him. It hit the stones with a wet smack.

Only Whisper remained, and still Maladar couldn’t see the elusive one. It was the darkness of the cave: Whisper could vanish in shadows, such that not even an elf’s sight could find him. He had used his talent in the empire’s service many times, to assassinate enemies both within Aurim and without. Maladar felt his heart race, knowing the most dangerous of the Seven was stalking him.

His fear lasted only a moment, though, because he remembered something Whisper hadn’t, perhaps: the cave wasn’t real, and neither were the shadows. Maladar wriggled his fingers again and let the illusion dissolve.

All at once, vault and statues vanished, turning back to smoke and dissipating into the air. In their place, Maladar stood once more in the sunlit throne room. He spun, looking for Whisper.

The veiled killer had been right behind him… and close. Maladar brought up his hand to kill him, but Whisper sprang an eye’s blink before he could release the spell, a punch-dagger flashing in his hand. Hot pain raced through Maladar’s side as the blade cut through his flesh. He reached up and tore Whisper’s veil away, then wheeled with the impact of the blow. The momentum carried Whisper past him, sent him staggering, the punch-dagger trailing drops of blood… Maladar’s blood. Whisper got his balance back then turned to attack again.

That is no man, Maladar thought as he cast the killing spell again. It hit Whisper as the punch-dagger was darting forward again, but the blade missed, snagging in Maladar’s robes. Then Whisper joined the rest of them, howling and writhing, a shredded mess on the floor that fell still after a moment of horrid suffering. In the instant before the skin tore away, though, Maladar understood why Whisper had never revealed his face. It had been the face of a woman.

When they were all dead, the pain hit him at last. Maladar staggered, pressing a hand to his side. He had come so close, so damned close to surviving. But one had slipped through, as he’d known would happen. The Seven had killed him. He sighed, waiting for his vision to dim, his body to grow heavy and cold.

It did not.

Maladar felt the wound again. There was blood, yes, but not much. He stared at Whisper’s blade on the floor; there was no venom on it. He took a deep breath, then another. It hurt—but again, not as much as he’d feared. The blow he’d thought lethal had been only a graze.

I survived, he thought, barely believing it. I denied fate!

He turned, looking for Caspa, thinking to send her for a healer. When he saw her body, torn on the floor, he felt a moment’s regret. He had liked his chamberlain. But she had been in the wrong place, and the rending spell had caught her too. A pity. Maladar shrugged and turned back toward his throne.

Shai stood before it, eyes wide, gaping at the blood pooling on the moonstones. In his hands he held a silver tray with eight goblets: seven of jeweled gold and one hewn from a single, enormous diamond. Maladar looked at the boy, whose face was pale. This was far from the first slaughter that had taken place in this room, but it was the first in Shai’s memory.

“Be easy, lad,” he said. “All is well, though dear Caspa is lost. They came to kill me, but I was too quick for them.”

“I brought…” the boy murmured, still staring at all the flayed bodies. “I brought the wine.”

Maladar nodded. “Eight cups, I see. Well, there is only need for one now.” He walked to Shai and lifted the diamond goblet—the emperor’s cup—from the tray. “A pity to waste so much fine grape and so many good swords on the same day… but there it is.”

He turned, raising the cup to salute his fallen enemies. His wound was already feeling better. Then he drew the cup into his hood and made a horrible, wet, sucking sound. Shai didn’t flinch; he’d long since grown used to the strange noises the emperor made when he drank.

Maladar relished the flavor of the Chakani green. It was a subtle wine, made from grapes grown on a hillside where two wizards had fought long ago. Their magic lingered in the vintage, giving it a taste unlike any other in Aurim: sweet and herbal and velvety, with a strange but not unpleasant burn beneath. He let it wash down his throat.

Right away, he knew something was wrong. The wine’s burn changed as he swallowed. It grew stronger, harsher, and his throat started to twist and swell. In moments Maladar was wheezing, then gasping. The strength went out of his fingers, and the diamond goblet clattered to the floor, spilling green wine across the tiles to mix with the Seven’s blood.

He stared at the goblet and knew.

Maladar whirled, staring at Shai in shock. The boy was looking straight at him, for the first time since the slavers brought him to the City of Songs. Furious, Maladar tried to cast the rending spell one more time, to tear the boy apart, but he couldn’t move his fingers, could only raise his arm a little. Nor could he draw in enough air to speak the necessary words of enchantment. The poison was closing his lungs. Shai watched, a cruel smile curling his lips.

The strength left Maladar’s legs, and as he fell, he knew how he would end up: in the same curled pose of agony he’d seen in the blood-filled pool. He hadn’t cheated fate after all.

He heard a crash—Shai dropping the tray and the other seven cups—then the boy was standing over him, still smiling, his eyes looking much older than his eight years and smoldering with hatred. Maladar could do nothing to stop him as he bent down and yanked the hood from his head.

What Shai beheld should have horrified him, but he gave no sign. Maladar’s face wasn’t a face at all, for the flesh was long gone, sacrificed for his magic many years ago. What remained was a skull surrounded by gnarled gristle with a jawless, gaping hole where his mouth should be. Maladar seldom revealed his visage, and then only to shock his enemies.

Shai only sneered.

“You are a monster, after all,” he said, rising again. “But you are also a fool, emperor of emperors. Did you forget who I was? I am a prince of my people, Majesty! I swore vengeance the moment I was brought here—for the honor of the Uigan, for my father and brothers when they died in your dungeons… and for myself, for all you have done to me.” His face darkened with memory; he shook his head. “Now it is done. You are slain, Majesty… and by the hand of a child. Thus shall your reign be remembered… and the Uigan will still ride upon the steppes when Aurim is nothing but ashes. Farewell, Maladar.”

Then the boy was gone, without a look back. Maladar listened to his footfalls recede. He couldn’t breathe at all anymore, not even the slightest trickle of air. The cold and the darkness, which he’d thought he’d eluded, came all the same.

His last thought, before they swallowed him, was that one day, the Uigan would pay.

Silence. Darkness.

No smells, no tastes, no feeling. Only thought.

This was not the Abyss.

Maladar was a powerful wizard. Using his magic, he had prolonged his life for more than two centuries. He had hoped to live for many more. The thought of his death was terrible, and he had delved deep into his grimoires, seeking answers. He had made plans, in case fate proved as unavoidable as the philosophers said. Fate had. But his plans had worked.

He wasn’t still alive—not truly, anyway—though neither was he dead. They would find his body in the throne room, would burn it and cast the ashes out over the River Ush, as the Aurish did with all their emperors. Yet his soul would endure. He had bound his soul to this mortal world, sealed it within stone, within the black statue in its vault, deep beneath Aurim’s eastern provinces. He would stay with his army, in silence and darkness, until new flesh came for him to claim. He had sown the seeds, planning for that day. It might be centuries in coming, but Maladar the Faceless was patient. He would wait… and one day he would be free.

He would rule Aurim again.