As they walked along, golden light illuminated alcoves sunk into the walls. Tall statues carved in exquisite detail filled each niche. Each figure’s name burned brightly at the base. They had no idea who these were until one lit up bearing the name Pravak Helos.

“So the mask was him.” Ciras looked up, studying the person he’d defeated. In life Pravak had been big, but had a softness to his features the metal had not conveyed. Ciras could tell he’d always been large, even as a child, and while this stood him in good stead in combat, his size probably also embarrassed him. Ciras had known countless individuals who suffered from the same mind-set and he wondered if Pravak thought he’d lost his battle because he was too big, or moved too awkwardly.

Borosan kept pace with Ciras. “So these were the vanyesh.”

“What they were once. Now, the gods alone know what they are.”

“They don’t look evil.”

“I doubt evil was part of what the sculptor wished to reflect.”

“Good point.”

They continued on until near the end, when the alcove with Jogot Yirxan’s statue in it appeared. The man wore his hair long-nearly as long as Ciras’ master had-and he had a smile that Ciras returned. While they looked nothing alike through the face, their bodies and limbs were proportioned similarly. Not a surprise, then, that his blade comes so easily to my hand.

Borosan pointed toward the statue. “Look at his sword. The sigils on it. Can you read them?”

“I don’t think I can make it out.”

“It seems to read ‘shadow-twin.’ ”

Ciras shook his head. “It means nothing to me.”

“Nor me.”

They continued on in silence, then reached the doorway and stopped. Pravak, likewise shrouded in a robe of gold, stood just inside the doorway. He ushered them in with a nod, then a sheet of gold flowed down behind them. Silently it solidified. Serpentine sigils writhed onto its surface, and it sealed the room.

Ciras’ skin began to crawl, and it was more than the itch of magic. The hall into which they had entered was long and narrow. Seating rose in tiers on either side, and the vanyesh had all assembled there. Each wore a formal robe of gold, embroidered as was appropriate. And Ciras found himself thankful for the oversized robes because he wanted to see as little as he might of these creatures.

Fewer than a hundred filled the available seating, and each of them had lived in Ixyll since the Cataclysm. He’d known that Mystics could live beyond the natural span of a man’s years, but these people had lived beyond even a supernatural span. Those who most closely resembled humans had shrunk and shriveled until flesh clung to them like sun-dried leather. Some were long and lean, as if they were constructs of deadwood, while others had become misshapen, their bodies infantile and their heads huge.

And then there were the inhuman ones. At least Pravak had some pride of workmanship in his form. He’d maintained bilateral symmetry and only used two elements-silver and bone-to create a new body for himself. Ciras had seen gyanrigot in Opaslynoti that had been cobbled together haphazardly and were still works of art compared to some of the vanyesh.

It is a blessing for the world they cannot leave this place.

Before them, at the far end of the hall, towering gold curtains hid that end of the room. At the midway point stood two tables, one large, one small, and Pravak pointed toward them. Ciras advanced to the larger and Borosan, as befitted a servant, took the smaller. Plates laden with fruit and cheese sat at each place, and goblets had been filled with a dark wine that steamed.

Pravak advanced behind them, and when he raised his arms, the gathered vanyesh rose as one. “We have assembled as you have commanded, oh lord. We have with us a brother born again and come home. It is the omen that tells us you have defeated Death, and will be reunited with your faithful servants once again.”

As he lowered his arms, the curtains parted to reveal a blocky throne of immense proportion. The back of it was shaped in a disk with nine stars excised around the edge. Each one had been inscribed with the mark of a god.

Borosan shot him a glance. “It matches the Celestial Throne.”

Ciras nodded. “So then, who is that?”

A golden skeleton had been seated in the throne. A robe embroidered in purple with the Virine bear had been draped over it. The skeleton, unlike some of the skeletal vanyesh, had no life to it. Ciras wondered if that was because it also had no skull.

The vanyesh all bowed deeply, and Pravak’s heavy hands forced Ciras and Borosan to bow as well.

“Give him praise and honor,” the vanyesh intoned. “He is our lord, Prince Nelesquin. His arrival is nigh. The world shall tremble and he shall return all things to right again.”

32nd day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

10th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Ministry of National Unity, Felarati

Deseirion

Keles sipped the tea he’d been offered, then nodded. Somewhere between a black tea and a green, it had floral hints and no acidic bite. That meant it had been harvested recently, probably in the Five Princes, and shipped north. Smuggled north, most likely. I think it’s Tiger-eyes. For the Desei Grand Minister to be offering it to him bestowed an honor.

And made him very suspicious.

At least it’s a nice break from moon-blossom tea.

Keles had been given a black robe trimmed in gold, with his family’s crest embroidered in all the right places. He’d not be allowed to wear a sword, but instead had tucked a baton into his gold sash. It marked him as being someone of rank, though he hardly needed it. Most of the people remaining in Felarati had been involved in his building project and knew him by sight.

He’d arrived at the Ministry of National Unity and been surprised to see swordsmen guarding the entrance. Aside from a few old men and women armed with knives, he’d thought anyone with enough training to hold a sword had left the city. Other than the embassies where the visiting nation provided security, Felarati had been left all but undefended. While Keles did not doubt that the Desei had plenty of shadows and secret police lurking, the fact was that very few people inclined to cause trouble remained.

The guards had conducted him to a small room with cedar paneling. Blond reed mats covered part of the floor, but had been edged in red cloth that married them to the redwood floors. On one wall hung a rice-paper painting in black ink with red commentary. The simple representation of a cedar provided a quiet dignity and made the room seem even more of an intimate place.

Then the paper-paneled door had slid back to admit Grand Minister Rislet Peyt and a tea-master. The Grand Minister bowed in greeting, then he and Keles bowed to the tea-master. Keles would have towered over Rislet, and certainly weighed about a third more, yet the young man’s presence filled the room. He’d shaved his head so it glowed a soft gold that contrasted well with his deep blue eyes. His robe, decorated with the Desei Hawk, was likewise blue and secured with a white sash.

The only sound in the room came from the preparation of the tea, which the tea-master poured for each of them. He then bowed and withdrew. The Grand Minister offered Keles his cup, then they both drank and sat in quiet contemplation of the tea.

After a respectful silence, the Grand Minister put his cup down. “I take great pleasure in your visit, Master Anturasi. Your work has transformed Felarati. The people are pleased, as is my master.”

“Thank you, Grand Minister.” Keles took another sip of his tea, then set his cup down. “You have had word from the Prince?”