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  For my three favorite champions, Shannon, Darian, and Rhiana

  PLEDGE OF THE ALTENERAI

  When comes my numbered day, I will meet it smiling. For I’ll have kept this oath.

  I shall use my arms to shield the weak.

  I shall use my lips to speak the truth, and my eyes to seek it.

  I shall use my hand to mete justice to high and to low, and I will weigh all things with heart and mind.

  Where I walk the laws will follow, for I am the sword of my people and the shepherd of their lands.

  When I fall, I will rise through my brothers and my sisters, for I am eternal.

  Prologue

  As he shrugged into his khalat again, he couldn’t keep from smiling, even though his fingers fumbled with the hooks. Earlier that night he’d been presented with the armored robe of the Altenerai, and now he donned it for the second time. He savored the moment and wondered if it would ever feel unremarkable to pull the garment on.

  He glanced down at the sacred ring on his struggling fingers and willed the sapphire to light, chuckling a little that he could do so, that he had earned the right to wear it. He, whom so many had been certain would never rise past the second rank.

  Still smiling, he thanked the sisters for a glorious evening. One was passed out upon the red coverlet, snoring lightly, her arms and legs akimbo, and he giggled. There was nothing very erotic about a drunken sleeping woman, he decided, even if she was mostly naked.

  The other waved at him languidly and then lay back, accidentally bumping her sister in the thigh with her elbow. Neither noticed. He slipped out through the front door.

  He hadn’t remembered the route back to the Alantran citadel being quite so confusing, but eventually he found his way to the right hill, up to the entrance, and past the sentry, who saluted him crisply. He raised his bottle in acknowledgment and headed on for the barracks, where he performed a similar ritual with a similar sentry. Once inside, it seemed the hall tilted at an odd angle. What light there was burned too brightly in a lantern near the head of the stair.

  There were more steps up toward Rialla’s sickroom than he’d recalled, but he found his way at last, knocking loudly on the door. “It’s me,” he said, “Kyrkenall.” His tongue felt thick.

  He was leaning against the door so that when she opened it he almost fell in upon her, but caught himself on the verge, nearly dropping his bottle in the process.

  Rialla retreated quietly.

  He steadied himself against the frame, offered a grin of apology, and lifted the wine bottle.

  Rialla wore a plain-cloth nightdress rather than the colorful silks of the dancers he’d left. Her short dark hair was in disarray, and she pushed it from her red-rimmed eyes, watching him.

  A trio of candles burned upon the table beside the bed set in the narrow stone room. He stepped past her to peer through the arrow-slit window down across the length of Alantris. He saw sloping roofs, first, then a drop to the next level, and expanses of dark sward and the sparkle of moonlight upon the beautiful canals, and, distantly, the final, outer wall, rising blackly. The Naor would never break that, and the city supplies would sustain them until the enemies lost enough warriors and wealth to slink back where they came from. What a fine way to spend a war, he thought—running forays from a metropolitan base celebrating his recent heroism. He’d sure risen in the world.

  “I brought this,” he announced, “to celebrate. You should have been there.”

  “I knew you would come.” Rialla’s voice was solemn.

  Kyrkenall couldn’t help giggling at the unintentional double entendre. At her confused look, he attempted to mimic her solemnity. This resulted only in more giggles as he dropped into the single chair, beside the window.

  She stood staring at him for a long while before he recovered and sat the bottle down upon the wooden floor with a clunk. He suddenly recalled that she was injured, and grew more serious. She’d been a very long time recovering from the spell to make N’lahr’s sword. “How are you?”

  “Better than you, just now. You brought no cups.” Her flat pronouncement was characteristically perceptive with no hint of reprobation.

  Kyrkenall fumbled at his khalat, and the pouch that he often hung upon his belt, searching for the goblets he’d meant to bring, but he found only the hilt of his knife. He had a panicked moment fearing that he’d lost both his wonderful sword and his amazing bow until he recalled that he’d left them in his room.

  Rialla bent to retrieve the bottle and held it up to the starlight, looking at the label.

  “Sorry about that,” he said. “I had some, at some point this evening. Gods, I wanted you to be there.” Then noticing how ably she moved, he said, “You look so much better.”

  She sat down on the edge of her bed. “I am still weary.”

  “You should have been with us tonight,” he insisted. “Kalandra was the one who bore witness to my wisdom. Can you believe it? And you should have heard the toast Aradel gave us! She talked about how ‘the future of the corps burned bright’ because of us. She mentioned you, too. Everyone was asking about you.”

  He peered over at her, hoping he’d communicated the triumph of the moment. She didn’t seem to be paying attention, and he frowned. It was unfair that Kalandra had declared her too weak to participate in the ceremony this evening.

  “I have dreamt strange dreams,” Rialla said. Her tone was intent.

  But he hadn’t shaken free his regret she wasn’t sworn to the ring yet. “They’ll give yours tomorrow, I expect. The ceremony won’t be as big, but will still be amazing. And it will be all about you!” He willed his own sapphire to shine and chuckled in delight when it did so. “I hope they’ll have the pipers again.”

  Rialla followed her own line of thought. “The Naor will fail this time, but they will return to break the wall in later years,” she told him, or rather the bottle, at which she still seemed to be staring. “N’lahr rises. And Alten Aradel reigns as governor. Asrahn points the way. Kalandra loses herself, as does Belahn. You will seek, and fly, and stand with kobalin.”

  The information was already muddled for Kyrkenall. He raised one finger, then the other beside it, and tried to decide which of the statements was stranger. “Kobalin?” he decided. But he felt like he was missing something.

  Suddenly she had put the bottle aside on the rumpled sheets and she was leaning forward. Her eyes were luminous and wide and strange. “But I am nowhere! Nowhere, Kyrkenall! There’s nothing left of me but a statue in the dark.”

  “Hey. It’s all right,” he said, for he hadn’t quite caught what she was saying, but could tell she was upset. “Statue in the dark” sounded lonely and bleak.

  She wrapped her arms about her chest. “It’s been a long time since I knew this fear.” She was looking down at the wooden floor planks past her feet. “I thought
we were strangers.”

  “You have nothing to fear.” He tried a laugh but it sounded wrong. “You’re the most powerful weaver to ever win the ring. Probably the most powerful weaver, anywhere at anytime.”

  “The ring? It won’t save me. I don’t even know why I want it anymore. I used to need it to prove I mattered.”

  He knew that she needed him to focus, and he was trying his best. “But you do matter. And you deserve the ring. More than I do, anyway.” He’d said it impulsively, but recognized its sobering truth as he caught a piece of her mood.

  Her gaze was like a physical force. “Kyrkenall, I think I’m going to die when the Naor come.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t happen. You’ll be using your hearthstone, well back from the front line.”

  “I’m not in control of it.”

  That was an absurd statement. No one could control them better. What was all this pessimistic gloom about? She seemed convinced she was doomed. “You’re not going to die,” he said, moving toward her before he remembered she didn’t like to be touched. He lost his balance as he stood, and careened into the bed, then got tangled up with his foot against the post and tripped and landed half-stunned on the floor.

  “I don’t want to.” Her voice from somewhere above him was hollow.

  It didn’t occur to him to be surprised, at first, that she helped him up and led him to bed. Head pounding, he was only vaguely aware that she unhooked his crisp khalat and made him lie back so she could remove his boots, and then she had thrown the blanket over him.

  She climbed in on top of the covers and lay down near, but not directly beside him.

  “Don’t die,” he said, not knowing he sounded as dependent as a tiny child. “We need you.”

  She smiled sadly, and it was that image that stayed with him as he drifted off to sleep.

  1

  The Dark Below

  As the sun sank beyond mountain heights, the city’s long avenues were stained in scarlet and shadow. Plumes of smoke twisted into the darkening sky from burning shingled roofs, and banners of no less than three Naor tribes fluttered above the invaders now striding red-handed through Alantris, hewing indiscriminately through knots of resistance and fleeing, frightened citizens.

  There was nowhere for them to run. The Naor had breached each of the city’s concentric ring of walls, flowing even to the foot of the citadel where Rylin watched from a high tower window. The sounds of the conflict washed up to him—the frantic trumpet blasts of defenders, the echoing horn call of the attackers, the clatter of hooves on cobblestone streets. The screams. Most of all, the screams.

  Rylin’s mouth shaped itself into an unconscious snarl. The capital’s fortress loomed not only above Alantris, but the surrounding countryside, granting him an unrestricted view of the west wall and the gap blown inward by one of the great winged lizards flown by the Naor. Successive beasts had forced gaps in the rest. Generations of rulers had overseen the construction of those defenses, never guessing how simply their work would be undone.

  Even as he stared, Rylin heard a nearby roar that set his citadel tower rocking. He cursed himself for permitting the horror to distract him. One of the Naor wyrms might at any moment focus its stone-shaking blast against the citadel and send its high towers splintering to the ground.

  He turned and hurried down the narrow wooden stairs. He bore his friend and mentor over his left shoulder, garbed like him in the blue armored robe of the Altenerai Corps. He’d found no wound upon Varama, but her movements were feeble. The traitorous alten Cerai had attacked her magically and left her stunned, or possibly worse. Since he’d found her, Varama had only managed a few jumbled words uttered singly. It was another horror to contemplate that the most brilliant person he’d ever met might have been rendered a monosyllabic idiot.

  He descended in gloom. Here and there, light shone blindingly through arrow slits looking down on crosswalks or courtyards, and he resisted the impulse to stop for longer looks. He would see only minor variation in the theme of destruction and futile defense. Alantris was already dead; it but flailed spasmodically as it expired. Somehow he had to get himself and Varama out of the citadel to somewhere safer in the dying city. Currently even that modest goal looked like an insurmountable challenge.

  As he reached the next landing, he heard Varama mumbling something, and he paused, head turned to better hear her. Long habit had taught him that when Varama spoke it was worth listening.

  “Can’t hear you,” he said. “We’ve got to get out of the tower before it falls.”

  Her hoarse voice struggled for greater volume even against a nearby trumpet blast. She spoke as if with great effort. “Entrance. Hid-den. Tunn’ls.”

  “Where? In this tower?”

  Her grunt sounded as though it was in the affirmative.

  “Where do we get in?”

  “First. Floor. Near. Main. Stair.”

  “Right.” Once he might have questioned her meaning. Now he trusted her implicitly. Her mind, at least, appeared to be working. She was aware of past and present, and planned for the future. It was the ability to communicate fluently which had failed her. Gods, he thought, let this be temporary.

  He adjusted her weight on his already-aching shoulder and resumed descent, wondering even then why he prayed for one person when so many were dead, dying, or in danger even now. Probably because the magnitude of those horrors was difficult to contemplate, and this horror was immediate and evident.

  A low, chest-shaking rumble set the tower rocking. He flung out his right arm to steady himself on the rail but increased his pace.

  Close by, one of the Naor wyrms had unleashed the deadly energy that collapsed walls, and it pushed him to greater haste. He could all too easily envision their deaths among the crushing stones.

  From below he heard a low horn call, and the shouts of men. There were sounds of booted feet on the stairs. “They’re going out to fight,” Rylin said to Varama, a little breathless. “And die.”

  He reached another landing. They’d finally descended the long vertical length of the west tower and emerged in the main portion of the citadel, though there were four stories yet between them and the ground. He dashed across an oaken floor covered over with a white flowered carpet, hurrying for the main stairs. “I should be with them,” he said.

  He was Altenerai, sworn to defend the realms and their people to his dying breath. “Must. Get. Others,” Varama managed, her breath husky with effort. “In tunn’ls. Squires. Warriors.”

  “After I get you to safety.” Rylin turned into the main stair. These were stone, and well worn by centuries of traffic. Indistinct shouting rose from below, followed by a horn call. Rylin understood its meaning: The Altenerai squires were being called to battle. A little late, he thought.

  As he reached the second floor, a trio of men ran past bearing bows and quivers. The rear one slowed for a moment as he caught sight of their uniforms, then hurried after his comrades.

  Starting down the last stairwell, he heard war cries and the clatter of blade on blade. An officer called out for her soldiers to pull back. A Naor bellowed that the Alantrans were on the run.

  He eased Varama against the wall and was surprised to see her supporting herself, albeit dazedly. Finally, a stroke of good fortune. Rylin stepped to the inner stair rail and peered at the main floor.

  Four Naor had advanced into the wide stone hall in a line, pressing three of the Alantran troops with spears set into the notches in the high corner of their shields.

  No expert on the markings of the Naor tribes, Rylin nonetheless knew that the absence of crests on pot helms denoted them as low-ranking troops. They might lack experience, but they’d be eager to prove their ferocity and bravery.

  He wondered why the Alantrans didn’t press harder, then saw them shielding one of the city’s councilors and the acting governor, obvious from the embroidered blue scarves wrapped about their heads.

  His first instinct was to cripple the N
aor with his sorcery, but he was already weakened from Cerai’s attack. Varama had taught him to use the tools at hand, which was why he snatched a bronze flowerpot from a stairwell niche. It made a delightful clang when it smashed into the helmeted temple of the Naor on the left and crumpled him. He grinned to himself that Naor never seemed to take the time to properly pad their headgear.

  Before the man had even hit the floor, Rylin vaulted the rail with sword in hand. His attack from on high cut through leather armor and shoulder alike and sent another warrior wailing to the ground. Rylin wrenched his arm pulling his sword from the body and just missed getting cut by an overenthusiastic Alantran charging into the sudden clear space.

  Rylin cursed at him, but the wide-eyed soldier had already turned on the next Naor.

  Attacked now from both front, flank, and rear, the last two Naor went down quickly. Rylin hurried to the citadel door, and was readying to slam it closed, when he saw a mass of Altenerai squires forming in a square and facing the ruined citadel wall.

  He shouted to them; then, when they didn’t turn, hurried forth, and screamed through cupped hands for them to fall back. Finally, the rear rank turned toward him, signaling those in front until dozens were hurrying into the citadel itself, along with some more of the city guards.

  The acting governor lay her hand on his arm as he stood at the open door. He could just hear her over the approach of the squires. “Thank goodness you’ve come. You’ve got to lead these forces to battle, Alten.”

  He saw the fervent look in her eyes and wished he had something better to tell her. “I’d be throwing their lives away, Governor Feolia. The city’s taken.”

  At those bleak words, she smiled gravely and looked to her own weapon. “Then we must die with sword in hand.”

  “Not today.” He waved in the squires and pointed a familiar, square-jawed fifth ranker to the stairway he’d quitted. “Sansyra! Varama’s on the steps. Get her down here!”