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  Soft thunder rumbled far to the west, beyond the edge of the forest. Dreslya pulled her cloak tight, turning her head to the east and the empty balcony outside the stained glass dome of the temple.

  She imagined Sameska stood hidden behind that glass and watched as the hunters came from far and wide across the Reach. Dreslya shivered, remembering the cold in the high oracle’s voice and demeanor. She needed no divination or cup of fethra petals to tell her that something was wrong.

  Evil was coming to their doorstep, and a ghostwalker strolled behind it.

  Sameska paced nervously in front of the glass dome of the temple, wringing her hands and revisiting her dreams and visions. A terrible prophecy had come, and the pain of it still ached her old bones and stiff joints. The vision had meaning—and the ghostwalker, probably a nomadic Hoarite, had some part to play. This was troubling, for the Hoarites’ actions were often unpredictable, as were their allegiances. She’d watched him fight viciously against monstrous enemies, though she knew not if he lived still.

  Surely he must, she thought. Savras has shown him to me—surely this wanderer comes at the All-Seeing One’s bidding to aid us, but why this one? A foreigner?

  Sameska rubbed her forehead with both hands, weary of contemplating her disjointed memories. She’d replayed them a thousand times, over and over, and still Savras’s mystery eluded her. She would be cautious at the gathering, revealing only enough to make her followers aware of what might occur, not send them screaming into battle against an unknown foe.

  She must remind them that the soul of prophecy is patience, though little of it soothed her growing anxiety. Flickering remnants of a greater power, the true voice of her god, brushed against her cheek or warmed the air during the past day. No words could be heard in those moments; no message of clarity came, nor even further confusion. It brought only the uncanny feeling that something was missing, some vital element was wrong and out of joint.

  Below, she could see Dreslya descending the gate excitedly and the Loethe sisters reuniting in the field outside the gates. She narrowed her eyes at their reunion and happiness, then walked away, suddenly angry and needing something to distract her labored thoughts.

  The slim blade carved smoothly the winding symbols of magic into her skin. Morgynn squeezed her eyes shut. She relished the pain, infusing her emotions into the magic. Her blood sang at the blade’s touch, rushing up through the broken skin to gracefully caress its pointed tip before withdrawing into the channels of spidery wounds.

  She bit her lip as waves of heat rolled through her body. Focusing hard to keep the ancient dagger moving, to complete the runic scars on her arm, she savored each moment of arcane creation. She did not bleed as she cut, for the bleeding was unnecessary. She did not bleed because she willed it. She was a blood magus, and each drop of her life was power. Her pulse alone could kill.

  During the scarring, her mind always returned to the tundra of Narfell, where she had first tasted power. That homeland was where she had once lived and died. The memories came unbidden, burned in her mind to play themselves out each time she put blade to flesh. When the blood became stirred, so did the past stir.

  Morgynn had learned much in her seven years with the Creel tribe. Taken at the age of five from her mother, the Creel had spared her life on the word of Yarrish, their war wizard, who sensed power in the young girl. She had always felt the strange tinglings of magic, but had not known what they were or what to call them. She was born with the gift, a sorceress, and Yarrish had envied her connection to the Weave.

  He taught her what he knew, how to channel the energy into spells, how to shape it to do her bidding. From the rest of the tribe, who tolerated her presence, she learned to be cruel and to take what she wanted when she could. Yarrish had looked upon her with new eyes the day she had killed a man, an outlander, and stolen his horse. For one so young to have summoned a killing flame and to mount her prize without a second thought, she showed that she had accepted the ways of the Creel fully and without regret. Then her mother, Kaeless Sedras, leader of the Sedras tribe, had come to reclaim her.

  Kaeless led her people at dawn on a charge into the camp of the Creel. Yarrish had concealed Morgynn from enemy eyes during trade meets and tribal councils, protective of the girl he now considered his own daughter and legacy in the world. It had been Haargrath, son of the chieftain, who had informed Kaeless of her daughter’s whereabouts in fear of the girl’s power and quiet ambition.

  Through force of arms and godly magic, the Sedras tribe was successful in recapturing the screaming Morgynn and bearing her away from the life she had grown to know. The Sedras typically held lands far away from the Creel territory, and Morgynn was quickly lost to her adoptive tribe, held captive by an enemy, a mother she barely knew or remembered.

  Years passed and Morgynn learned to function within the Sedras tribe, even calling Kaeless “Mother,” but she never truly lost her identity as a Creel. Under the tutelage of a wizard in the tribe, Morgynn learned more about her magic, surpassing the skills of her peers by leaps and bounds. They envied her power and spread rumors behind her back, calling her a Creel witch. Morgynn always heard them and enjoyed their hatred of her, casting withering stares at them and baring her teeth when no one was looking.

  Once a year, the tribe would attend the Bildoobaris, a trade meet and occasion for the tribal leaders to converse and settle disputes. Kaeless had forbidden Morgynn to attend for many years after rescuing her, as the Creel would also be in attendance. Eventually, seeking to gain her daughter’s trust, Kaeless allowed Morgynn to participate.

  Morgynn had grown into a beautiful young woman by then, and was well aware of her effect on men. She was learning to use that knowledge to her advantage, much to her mother’s glowering disapproval. At those trade meets, Morgynn had first begun to learn more of the world beyond the tundra. There she had met Zhamiel, an aging priest of Gargauth and an outsider from the Great Dale to the south.

  She had never taken to the worship of Lathander, like the rest of the Sedras, and found no interest in Zhamiel’s talk of Gargauth, but she’d felt a kinship that day as he wove tales of older times and armies of demons. She learned of the Nar Empire and its war against Raumathar, learned the histories of the ruins that dotted the cold plains of her homeland. Zhamiel told her of the magic as well, hidden treasures lost, buried beneath stone and time.

  Ruins in Narfell were numerous and easy to find but were approached only by the brave or the greedy. Morgynn and a few acolytes of Zhamiel set out to find the Well of Goorgian, an open pit in the ruins of a nameless city. Goorgian was once a Nar wizard who, it was rumored, had worshiped Gargauth and built the first true temple in Gargauth’s name. He and his followers became known as the Order of Twilight.

  Zhamiel promised Morgynn that powerful secrets lay hidden in Goorgian’s grave, a crater where he’d been destroyed by his own foolishness. She’d left the Bildoobaris unannounced, knowing her mother would search for her, but Morgynn had no intention of returning to the Sedras or even the Creel. Her time walking in the paths of others was over.

  Her group eventually found the edge of the pit where Goorgian had consumed his own life in dreams of power. Morgynn stared deep into that darkness and began to dream herself. For the first time, Morgynn imagined power, real power. She had no idea that the next three years would pass so quickly or that her mother would not only give up on her only daughter but would also seek to end her life.

  With her ritual complete, the memories faded along with the pain that lessened to a dull ache in her forearm. Traced with the letters and secret language of her magic, she admired her skin for a moment, studying her work and feeling more confident with her scars restored. She sighed, shrugging off the haze of the pain-induced trance, and surveyed her surroundings.

  The walls inside the lone tower of Jhareat were piled high with bones, shoved from the floors to clear them. Dusty skulls and fleshless limbs adorned each room in the narrow tower, its long-forgott
en defenders well beyond caring about being conquered. Their weapons and armor lay rusting and tattered amid the bones. Through a small arched window, lightning flashed and powerful winds roared. She could almost hear the chanting Gargauthans below, weaving the storm spell into the base of the tower.

  She found that she enjoyed the storms more as she’d traveled farther south. Their warmth was a welcome change from the chilling gales that blew across the tundra in Narfell. The more she beheld them, the more it seemed her thick blood demanded them. Lost in the chaos of thunder and roaring tornadoes, her memories were but a nagging whisper, where her blood was a raging tempest.

  She peered through the darkness of the low-hanging clouds, across the fields of ruined walls and jutting bits of rubble, to the edge of the forest. She whispered a quick spell and her eyes became as sharp as an eagle’s, focusing the forest with amazing clarity. After a few moments, she found what she’d been looking for, what she’d sensed coming closer. A massive, coal-black mastiff stared back at her, its muscles rippling as it prowled through the trees. She smiled at his savage beauty, his brute strength and stealth as he negotiated the shadows of the ruined clearing at a full run.

  Khaemil was shadurakul, a breed of shapeshifter called from the realm of Avernus in the Nine Hells. Though released from his initial bond of servitude, Khaemil had bound himself to Morgynn willingly, remaining at her side ever since and considered a blessing by the Gargauthans. Morgynn stopped short of calling him a blessing. She’d tasted one of Gargauth’s favors already. Though grateful, she felt no desire to entertain them in the future.

  Morgynn could hear him entering the tower below. The heavy clicking of his paws became the familiar rustle of night robes as he ascended the twisting staircase along the tower’s interior. Then Khaemil stood in the doorway to the uppermost floor, his head bowed and awaiting Morgynn’s attention. She’d been casting recently, and she knew he could smell the scent of her as soon as he’d entered the tower. The aroma of blood and heat defied the open window and the cool air that blew outside.

  She turned to him slowly, settling into her stone seat and dismissing her spell of vision, bringing the room back to a softer focus. Khaemil stepped into the candlelight, lowering his hood, as Morgynn watched him expectantly.

  “What news from the forest?” Morgynn asked the question nonchalantly and looked down to inspect her skin once again, caressing and tracing the darkening designs.

  “We have many potential allies deep in the woods, but they are mere beasts. Those more intelligent attempt to hide themselves from us, but they are there.”

  “No matter,” Morgynn replied, “All is as it should be for now. The Gargauthans have begun their work on the tower and the storm grows by the moment. We have little to do but gather our strength and wait.”

  “Yes, my lady. The storm is magnificent.” Khaemil walked to the window then, looking across the dampening ruins as she had moments before. “Talmen looks little pleased by our success so far.” A smile crept into his voice, capturing Morgynn’s attention with his implication of further news.

  “Your voice is mischievous, Khaemil. What delights you so?”

  Khaemil turned, sighing through his toothy grin. “Only that poor Talmen and his favorite pupil no longer serve Gargauth in the same manner. While Talmen seeks his god’s favor in his daily works, Mahgra now petitions for mercy in the pits of the Nine Hells. He is dead.”

  Morgynn returned Khaemil’s smile, but the look lasted only a moment before her mood changed and rage boiled in the back of her throat. Khaemil gasped, his heartbeat pounding as she stood and walked toward him. He couldn’t breathe and stared wide-eyed at her, frantically clawing at his chest and shoulder as pain raced through them.

  As she watched him struggle, her eyes welled with blood, red tears seeking to burst forth in a mockery of despair. At her belt she gripped a small silver vial. Within it was Khaemil’s blood, taken long ago and used as a kind of leash against him. A leash—and, as now—a lash.

  “Why does Talmen know the tale of Mahgra before me?” Her words were swift and forceful, wasting none of the time Khaemil had left before death might claim him. She eased her spell slightly, giving him a moment to answer with shallow breath.

  “Scrying! My lady, please! He watches!”

  Morgynn arched an eyebrow and looked to her side. “Ah, so the worm isn’t as docile as I’d imagined him to be.” She released the vial of blood and Khaemil fell to the floor, gulping at the air and allowing the pain to fade before standing again. “We must watch the dear malefactor more closely. He may be ready to accept that a wandering Hoarite has killed Mahgra, but if he suspects our hand in the matter, we may lose the support of the Gargauthans.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Khaemil’s voice was hoarse as he regained his footing. He staggered slightly as his pulse slowly fell into step with his actions. “I will watch him.”

  “No, Khaemil. He already knows you are not fond of him. I will keep an eye on dear Talmen. He is blind enough to accept my presence without question.” She stared into the flame of a nearby candle, her mind racing to put all in order. “We have no more need of the Hoarite. His job is done here—make sure he crusades elsewhere.”

  Her voice softened and grew more detached as the flame transfixed her gaze.

  “I will do as you command, Lady Morgynn, as always, but there is another matter of the forest. A ring of pale trees, a short distance beyond the edge of the woods—a strange scent lingers there, a feeling of defiance and power but also fear.”

  Morgynn did not answer right away, lost in thought. She tilted her head, her eyes nearly closing in the embrace of her own magic, her blood excited and dancing within her.

  “My lady?”

  “Yes,” she pulled herself away for a moment, “yes, the pale trees. I will deal with them later. I must prepare—I have work to do soon. Leave me now.”

  She did not hear or see him leave, only felt the absence of his pulse in the room, a void where his warmth had once stood. In the candle’s flame, she saw other flames, old fires in her memory. The divine inferno of Lathander burned in her past along with the face of her mother, twisted in righteous anger as the Well of Goorgian had been surrounded by the Sedras.

  Beyond all desire for power, beyond blood and magic and vile spell, the ambition of a blood magus is not born in the study of ancient secrets and dusty tomes. The blood magus, a child of death, must appease that fickle parent—the grave—above all other concerns. Only in death, whether chosen or delivered, does the power first stir in the cold, still heart. And the memory of that death lasts forever.

  The candle flickered in a strong gust from the window and guttered out. Morgynn blinked, watching the trailing smoke of the blackened wick disperse before her eyes. Immeasurable moments passed before she finally looked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Elisandrya was taller than her older sister, taking after their father’s strong Shaaryan blood. She was long of limb and lithe, her skin an exotic blend of the yellowish Shaaryan and her mother’s dark Arkaiun tones. Both sisters bore the thick auburn hair of their mother, long and curled in natural ringlets, but while Dreslya’s was contained and pulled back, Elisandrya’s was free and flowing, at the mercy of the wind.

  As they approached one another on the crowded field of hunters, each reflected on their long separation from one another. Dreslya fairly ran to meet her sister. Elisandrya stood in place, half-smiling and even happy, but nervous. She had always felt the irony between the two of them more, that Dreslya was an oracle and saw far less than her hunter sister. Elisandrya had fallen far from the scared and skittish little girl she’d been before joining the hunters and seeing much of the harsh world beyond Brookhollow’s well-ordered lanes.

  Her eyes had become older than the face that framed them, like those of the hunters who had trained her in their ways. Those eyes were at peace with the world they viewed, but they understood that only the sword and bow procured that peace. Life and freedom
on the edge of the Qurth, more often than not, was bought with death. Being called to Brookhollow in the midst of such storms and spreading plague brought that martial knowledge to the forefront of her thoughts. The mere idea of a gathering, tendays before the traditional Feast of the Moon, set her on edge, and she found she could focus on little else.

  Dreslya’s easy smile faded as she approached her sister, and Eli felt instantly guilty for banishing the spirit of their reunion. Years could not erase the events which had taken their parents, nor the vast difference with which Eli had dealt with the loss compared to Dres. Always, she felt burdened with secrets, though it was in Brookhollow where they seemed stored.

  “It’s good to see you, Eli,” Dreslya said hesitantly, as if addressing a distant acquaintance.

  “Would that it could be under better circumstances, Dres.” Elisandrya heard the tone in her own voice and felt ashamed. “I—I’m sorry, Dres. It’s been a long ride and things—”

  “It’s all right, Eli. I know … we all know.”

  “It’s good to see you, too,” Eli managed, but she struggled to reconcile the memory of her older sister with the woman she now saw. Was she truly happy to be back in Brookhollow?

  The white walls of the temple loomed above the wooden and stone barrier of the main perimeter. Eli avoided looking at them, content to wrestle with matters of family and time before confronting those of memory and faith.

  She instead studied Dreslya’s face and almost smiled, seeing the image of their mother. That understanding look had driven her to indignant rage at times, and at others it had been all that she longed to see again. It was pleasant now but bittersweet. Only days ago had she visited their parents’ graves to the north along an empty stretch of the Low Road to Littlewater. Turning away, she fidgeted at her horse’s saddle and bags, avoiding that familiar emerald gaze.