Prologue

The Temple of Akh-tazi, Neron

She awoke to darkness, to silence. She awoke to it every morning—if morning it was. It could be the middle of the night. There was no way to know.

Light came twice every day: the cold, white glimmer of magic, shining from the hall when her captors brought her food. That was it. With this light, she had defined the boundaries of her cell. It was small, three paces on a side, with a high ceiling that caused every cough, every groan, to echo horribly. Its walls and floor were dark stone, graven with images she did not recognize—awful images. Eagles with serpents' heads. Men with the heads of hunting cats. Corpses with their chests flayed open. She tried not to look at them when the light came, but it was hard. They were all around and never seemed to be in the same place twice.

There was a bed, reeds stretched over a wooden frame, with a blanket of some woven plant fiber that itched horribly. There was a clay pot for waste. There was nothing else.

She had yet to see her captors. The food simply appeared; the scraps vanished. The waste pot was emptied, replaced by a fresh one. She could sense them when the door opened—mocking eyes in the shadows—but they did not reveal themselves.

Essana Forlo, Baroness of Coldhope, had never felt so desolate in her life.

Sleep brought terror, dark dreams she could barely remember when she woke. The glisten of black scales, the creak of leathery wings, the chanting of many growling voices. Shadows that walked like men, whose touch was like knives of ice. The dreams had no coherence, made no sense. She tried to untangle them, but they frayed, fell apart. Every time. She wept with frustration.

Where in the Abyss was she?

The door opened. Cold light spilled in. No one there. Food came. It was almost always the same meal: a roasted game bird of some sort, the skin crackling, the meat succulent. A porridge of something close to mashed turnip. A mound of little, round fruits, red-fleshed and sour. A cup of bitter, steaming tea that must be drugged. There was plenty of it… which was good, for she had another to feed, growing inside her. Her son, by her husband, Barreth—Barreth, who had left to fight a battle both of them knew he couldn't survive. He must be dead now, slaughtered by barbarians. How long until their son was born? Three months? Four? It was impossible to tell; time in this place meant nothing.

After the door slammed shut, she wolfed her food. It could have tasted like ashes, and she would have gobbled it down—her unborn child made her hungry beyond reasoning—but it was delicious. That only made her imprisonment worse, somehow. Still, she needed the food for strength. Today she would try to escape.

It had taken a long time to make the decision, longer still to find the courage. But Essana knew there was no hope if she stayed here. What her captors had in mind, she didn't know… but she had to get out. So she decided as she sat in the dark, stuffing porridge in her mouth, that she would leave her cell the next chance she got.

And if they caught her? If they killed her?

She didn't care anymore.

She was still half awake when the door opened again, well after supper. She hadn't drunk the drugged tea today; had poured it into the waste pot instead. She feigned grogginess, moaning as the light spilled in. The platter holding the scraps of her meal quivered, then rose off the floor. So did the waste pot. Nothing held them up; they simply floated into the air and slid out of the room. She bit her lip, gathered her strength, tensed herself to follow. She would have a second, maybe two, to heave her pregnant body out the door. The door would probably crush her if it shut on her. Had to be quick.

Wait… wait… now.

Something appeared in the doorway, just as she was leaping forward: a shape. It was tall, maybe seven feet, slender, and not human. The thing was an abomination: its flesh a mottled mess of moss green and ruddy brown; its hands three-fingered, with long, slender talons; its head a bulbous, hairless orb with dead-white eyes and four writhing tentacles where its mouth should be. A stink rose from it, like skunk spray mixed with rotting fish. It burned her nose, made her eyes water. It wore a filthy gray cassock, cinched with rope, like a monk's habit.

Essana let out a near-voiceless scream and fell back. The thing watched her, its gaze devoid of emotion. Its tentacles twitched, moving as if each had a mind of its own. When it spoke, it made no sound: the words simply formed in her mind, toneless and scratchy.

We know what you were going to do. If you try, this will be your fate.

An image blazed in her mind, as clear as if she were seeing it with open eyes. Essana beheld herself from above. She was naked, chained to the floor of this very cell, her body a ruin. Her arms were broken; so were her legs. Her eyes were hollow pits. Her tongue was gone. But her belly was large, round and hard: the baby, almost ready to emerge. And she knew what she'd suspected since she first awoke here:

Her captors cared nothing for her. They wanted only the child.

"Why?" she screamed. "What are you going to do with him?"

The tentacled horror stared at her without emotion. More words came.

Do nothing to thwart us, and you will not suffer. Betray us, and you will know pain, for the rest of your life. Soon the Brethren will send for you.

Essana stared at the wretched creature, hate boiling inside her. She wanted to crush it, smash its awful, glistening head against the wall until it cracked open. But she held herself in check, backed against the wall, slid down to the floor. The creature watched her a moment longer, then vanished into the shadows. A clean waste pot glided into the room and settled to the floor. The door rumbled shut.

Darkness again. Essana sat in the gloom, shaking. In time, sleep came—and with it new dreams, of tentacles and blank, white eyes.

She woke. She slept. Inside her, the new life grew.

Essana lay on the bed, her hand on her belly. She knew the baby was still alive, but sometimes, in the stillness, she prayed the gods would claim him. It would be easier if she miscarried… but she did not. For many years, she and Barreth had struggled to conceive a child. Now her body would not give it up.

"They won't have you," she whispered. "I will not give you to those… those…

Creatures. Things."

She was lying there, aching, when the door opened again. A figure stood framed against the light. She shrank back against the wall, then realized it wasn't the monster that had confronted her before. This was a man, clad in a dark cloak, a deep hood drawn low over his face. He watched her from the doorway, framed by the light.

"Who…" she croaked.

"I am called the Keeper," he replied. His voice was strange, with a thick, rasping quality. It was the voice of a strangled man, or one whose throat has been cut.

Essana swallowed painfully. "What do you want with me? With the child?"

"You will learn the answers," said the Keeper, "if you come with me."

"And if I refuse?"

His head tilted, his shoulders shaking. The man was laughing—not mockery, but genuine mirth.

"Spirited," he said. "I knew one like you, once. Before I came to this place. But you cannot refuse—you will come of your own accord, or… by their command."

He stepped aside. There was movement behind him. Two of the things came in. One was green and brown, the other fish-belly grey. They stared at her, unfeeling, tentacles waving. Essana felt a prickling in her mind, like a name she wanted to remember, but couldn't. She put a hand to her forehead. The feeling grew, became a thought.

Get up.

Her eyes locked on the creatures. They are doing this to me, she thought. I must resist.

Stand.

She bunched her hands into fists. She bit her tongue. She thought of songs, memories, making love to Barreth. She fought the command, but the suggestion kept growing in her mind, growing so strong her legs burned to move.

STAND.

It was too much. Groaning, she swung her legs off the bed and lurched to her feet. Tears of frustration crawled down her cheeks.

"Gods damn you," she growled, her teeth grinding.

The Keeper had watched it all happen, not saying a word. Now he raised a hand. "Enough," he murmured. "Leave us."

The creatures glanced at him, and at once their minds were gone from Essana's. She nearly collapsed as they withdrew from the cell. She staggered against the wall, glowering at the cloaked figure.

"What are they?" she asked.

"They are called yaggol," he replied. "An ancient race. They built this temple. Once they ruled a mighty empire, but now they serve the Brethren."

Essana wiped her face with the back of her hand. "And who do you serve?"

"You will see. Now come."

She still wanted to tell him to rot in the Abyss, but the thought of the yaggol compelling her again sickened her. Defeated, she gestured for him to lead on.

He did, and she followed. The yaggol walked behind, silent. The Keeper strode down the cramped stone passage, his black cloak billowing behind him. They came to a stairway, leading up. The Keeper climbed, and Essana and the yaggol followed. He never glanced back.

Scents came to her: fresh air. Trees. Strange flowers. She heard wind through leaves. She glimpsed moonlight, red and silver, upon the stone. They emerged into an open courtyard, at night, a clear sky above: Solis and Lunis and stars. The plaza was ringed with pillars of black stone, crumbling and vine-throttled, some broken, some toppled. The floor was stone as well, huge blocks between which grew white flowers surrounded by blue-glowing fireflies. Beyond, on three sides, stood dense walls of jungle. The trees were huge, rising high above. Strange animals called from within. The air sweltered, humid and hot even at night.

She knew where she was now—Neron, the southernmost reaches of Taladas. A thousand miles from home. Despair clawed at her—even if someone were looking, how could they ever find her? How would they even start?

On the fourth side of the courtyard rose a tall, stepped pyramid, a ziggurat hewn of the same black rock as everything else. A broad, steep stair rose up the pyramid's side, awful gargoyles of animal-men perched on each step. More cloaked figures loomed at the top.

"The Brethren await," said the Keeper, and he walked on. Essana glanced at the yaggol, who stared back. She followed him.

The stairs were hard going, especially in her condition. She moved slowly, using her hands to brace herself against the steps above. Not far from the top she faltered, slipping. The Keeper reached down and caught her wrist before she could fall. His grip was firm but gentle. He helped her the rest of the way up.

There were five more like him atop the ziggurat. All wore cloaks. They watched from the shadows of their hoods as the Keeper led her forward. There was an altar, old and worn, with grinning skulls carved on its sides. Dried blood crusted its top. Essana froze at the sight.

The Keeper glanced at her. "Do not fear, lady. That is not for you."

A mad impulse came to her, then—she should turn and run. Throw herself down the stairs. The fall would almost certainly kill her. It would definitely kill the baby. But when she looked behind, the yaggol were there, watching. They saw what was in her mind. She wouldn't be able to take two steps before they seized control of her again. She hated them, more than anything she'd ever hated in her life.

Another of the cloaked figures exchanged hushed words with the Keeper, then turned toward her. She felt her knees buckle. This one had no humanity left in him; there was only malice, and burning zeal. She could feel his evil gaze, and it made her shudder.

"You have questions," he said. "You will have answers soon. I am the Master; the Keeper you already know. The others are the Watcher, the Speaker, the Teacher, and the Slayer. We are the Faceless Brethren."

As one, the six figures cast hack their hoods, and Essana let out a gasp of horror. What they revealed weren't faces at all, but leering skulls, the flesh stripped away by blade and flame to lay bare the bone beneath. Black tongues worked behind long teeth. Bloodshot eyes glistened in their sockets. They had been human once; now they were something else. Essana tasted bile. She wanted to look away but realized she couldn't.

"You wish to know who we are," said the Master, the tendons of his jaw working. "We are heralds, disciples. We prepare for the return of a great power—one who once slept, but is now awoken."

A shriek pierced the night: a furious, skirling cry that awakened a memory buried deep in her. She looked up, and saw it—the vision from her nightmares.

The black dragon.

It slid between the stars, long and sinuous, almost invisible. Its wings eclipsed the moons as it swept over the trees. Its scales glittered. Its eyes were coals of burning red. Venom dripped from its fangs. In its claws it held two things: the limp, dark-skinned form of a person, and a statue carved of dark stone.

A statue she knew too well.

A moan escaped Essana's lips, and she fell painfully to her knees. Barreth had brought the statue to the castle of Coldhope, their home, several months ago. It was said to be an ancient relic from the lost empire of Aurim—worth a small fortune to the right people. They'd both hated the thing, but had kept it, hoping to sell it to sages in the city of Kristophan. They had hidden it beneath the castle, out of sight.

Not long after, the elf had come. Shedara had been seeking the statue for months. She called it the Hooded One and told them its tale: hewn in the image of Maladar, a mad sorcerer-king who once ruled Aurim, it was said to house his spirit, trapped within. The Hooded One was dangerous beyond reckoning, and Shedara had come to see that it was destroyed. But before they could do anything about it, Barreth had been drawn away, to fight the Uigan barbarians as they crossed the straits of Tiderun. He rode out, giving the statue into Shedara's keeping.

Then Essana's memories ended, and her nightmares began. The dragon had come for her. It and other fiends—little, shadowy creatures that killed with knives that spilled no blood—overran Coldhope. They brought her here. And they also brought the Hooded One.

The dragon circled the pyramid… once, twice… then spread its wings and swooped down. It set down the statue, and dropped the other shape onto the altar. Looking closer, Essana saw it was an elf—small, naked save for a loincloth of woven leaves and a necklace of red and yellow stones. His face was painted with white lines, and his head was shaved, save for a tight, black knot of hair at the crown of his head. He was battered, blood leaking from his nose. He groaned, blinking, then saw the Brethren and cried out, trying to rise.

He couldn't: his legs wouldn't work. The dragon had broken his back.

The great wyrm settled on the far end of the roof, tucking in its wings and lowering its head. Its eyes fixed on Essana as the largest of the Brethren strode toward the altar. In his hand he held a long, sickle-bladed knife. Essana knew he was the one called the Slayer. The elf's struggles grew more frantic.

The Faceless turned toward the statue, and Essana saw that it had changed. When she'd last seen it, it had been shrouded; now, somehow, its stone cowl had fallen back to reveal a ruined, fleshless face, much like the Brethren's. One of them, the Speaker, raised his hands to it and intoned in a deep, mellifluous voice.

"Hail, the Faceless Emperor! Maladar an-Desh, lord of wizards, reaver of cities, sleeper within the stone!"

"Hail, the Faceless!" echoed the Brethren.

"We give you the blood of the innocent. Let his life sustain yours until the time of your return."

The elf's shrieks were not in a language Essana knew, but she understood nonetheless. He called to his ancestors, to the gods. The Slayer seized the knot of his hair, jerked his head back, and with the practiced movement of a butcher, cut his throat.

The cries ended in an awful drowning sound. The elf's struggles ceased. Blood flowed thick. The Slayer put away his knife and produced a bowl, made from an empty skull. He held it under the killing wound until it was full to the brim. Then he walked to the Hooded One, raised it in salute, and poured the blood at the statue's feet.

"Blood for the Faceless!" he shouted.

"Blood!" the Brethren repeated.

The Master seized Essana by the shoulders, dragging her to her feet. Roughly he thrust her forward, toward the statue. She stumbled again, light-headed with shock.

"Be careful!" said the Keeper. "The child must not be harmed."

The Master waved him off, then strode forward and hauled Essana up before the Hooded One. "Behold, sleeper!" he called. "Behold your vessel, and know your time is nigh. The child will come, as the Watcher proclaimed. The child will come, and be yours."

Essana looked up at the Master, horror robbing her of speech. He stared down at her, and though his face was incapable of emotion, his eyes burned with scorn. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. She knew why the dragon had brought her here. Why they wanted her son.

"Yes, my dear," rasped the Master. "You see, don't you? Maladar's spirit stirs. It longs to quit its prison of stone. But it cannot. Not yet. He needs flesh to house him. The Faceless seeks a body."

Finally, it was too much. The sheer awfulness of it overwhelmed her. With a despairing sigh, Essana Forlo collapsed.