“And we’ve come at great personal cost and greater risk,” Feir interrupted, looking at Dorian sharply.

“We hope you have no doubt that we could kill you. That if we wished you harm, we could have already done it,” Dorian said.

“There are more types of harm than just killing. A wetboy knows that,” Kylar said.

Dorian smiled, but Feir still looked wary. Kylar felt the bonds release him. That unnerved him. They’d seen how fast he could move and yet they released him, armed.

“Allow me to introduce us,” Dorian said. “This is Feir Cousat, one day to be the most renowned swordsmith in all Midcyru. He is Vy’sana and a Blademaster of the Second Echelon.”

Great. “And you?” Kylar asked.

“You won’t believe me.” Dorian was enjoying this.

“Try me.”

“I am Sa’seuran and Hoth’salar, and once a Vürdmeister of the twelfth shu’ra.”

“Impressive.” Kylar had no idea what those were.

“What should be important to you is that I’m a prophet. My name is Dorian,” Dorian said with a native Khalidoran accent. “Dorian Ursuul.”

“You were right,” Feir said. “He doesn’t believe you.”

Aside from carelessness, the only things that could kill wetboys were other wetboys, mages, and wytches. In Blint’s estimation, wytches were the worst. He hadn’t neglected Kylar’s education. “Let me see your arms,” Kylar said.

“Ah, so you know about the vir,” Dorian said. “How much do you know about them?” Dorian bared his arms to the elbows. There were no marks on them.

“I know that all wytches have them, that they grow in proportion to the wytch’s power and their intricacy shows the wytch’s level of mastery,” Kylar said.

“Don’t do it, Dorian,” Feir said. “I’m not going to lose you over this. Let’s tell him the words and get the hell out of here.”

Dorian ignored him. “Only men and women who are Talented can use the vir. It’s easier to manipulate than the Talent and more powerful. It’s also terribly addictive and, if one dare speak in moral absolutes—which I do—it’s evil,” Dorian said, his eyes bright, holding Kylar. “Unlike the Talent, which can be good or bad like any talent, it is in itself evil, and it corrupts those who use it. It has proven useful to my family to have all meisters marked, so they are. My ancestors never saw any reasons to be marked ourselves unless we so chose. The Ursuuls can make their vir disappear at will, so long as they aren’t using it.”

“Blint must have skipped that lesson,” Kylar said.

“A pity it is, too. We’re the most dangerous Vürdmeisters you could possibly imagine.”

“Dorian, just tell him the words. Let’s—”

“Feir!” Dorian said. “Silence. You know what do.”

The big man obeyed, glowering at Kylar.

“Kylar,” Dorian said. “You’re asking a drunkard who’s quit drinking to take just one glass of wine. I’ll live in misery for weeks for this. Feir will have to watch me constantly to see that I don’t slip away to that madness. But you’re worth it.”

Feir’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say a word.

Dorian held his arms out and a shimmer passed over them. As Kylar stared at them, it looked as if veins deep in the man’s arms were wriggling, struggling to get to the surface of his skin. Then, rapidly, they rose all together. Dorian’s arms turned black like a million fresh tattoos were being inked over each other. Layer knotted on layer, each distinct, interlocking with those below and above, darker over lighter with darker still coming in above. It was beautiful and terrible. The vir swelled with power and moved, not just with Dorian’s arms, but independently. It seemed that they wanted to burst free of the confines of his skin. The darkness of the vir spread to the room, and Kylar was sure it wasn’t his imagination: the vir were sucking the light from the room.

Dorian’s eyes dilated until the cool blue irises were tiny rims. A fierce joy rose in his face and he looked ten years younger. The vir started to swell, crackling audibly.

Feir picked up Dorian like most men might pick up a doll and shook him violently. He shook and didn’t stop shaking. It would have been comical if Kylar weren’t too scared to move. Feir just shook and shook until the room was no longer dark with power. Then he set Dorian down in a chair.

The man groaned and abruptly looked frail and older once more. He spoke without raising his head. “I’m glad you’re convinced, Shadowstrider.”

It had convinced him, but Dorian couldn’t know that. “How do I know it wasn’t an illusion?” Kylar asked.

“Illusions don’t suck light. Illusions—” Feir said.

“He’s just being stubborn, Feir. He believes.” Dorian glanced at Kylar and quickly looked away. He groaned. “Ah, I can’t even look at you now. All your futures….” He squeezed his eyes shut.

“What do you want from me?” Kylar asked.

“I can see the future, Nameless One, but I am only human, so I pray that I can be wrong. I pray that I am wrong. By everything I’ve seen, if you don’t kill Durzo Blint tomorrow, Khalidor will take Cenaria. If you don’t kill him by the day after that, everyone you love will die. Your Sa’kagé count, the Shinga, your friends old and new, all of them. If you do the right thing once, it will cost you a year of guilt. If you do the right thing twice, it will cost you your life.”

“So that’s what this is? All this is just a setup so I’ll betray Master Blint? Did your masters think I would buy it?” Kylar said. “Oh, you learned a lot about me, must have cost a fortune to buy all that information.”

Dorian held up a weary hand. “I don’t ask you to believe it all now. It’s too much all at once. I’m sorry for that. You think now that we’re Khalidorans and we want you to betray Blint so that he can’t stop us. Maybe this will convince you that you’re wrong: What I beg of you above all else is that you kill my brother. Don’t let him get the ka’kari.”

Kylar felt as if he’d just been stung. “The what?”

“Feir,” Dorian said. “Say the words we came to say.”

“Ask Momma K,” Feir said.

He shook his head. “Wait! What? Ask her about the ka’kari?”

“Ask Momma K,” Feir said.

“What about your brother, who is he?”

“If I tell you now, you’ll lose when you fight him.” Dorian shook his head, but still didn’t look at Kylar. “Damn this power. What good is it if I can’t tell you in a way you’ll understand? Kylar, if time is a river, most people live submerged. Some rise to the surface and can guess what’s going to happen next, or can understand the past. I’m different. When I don’t concentrate, I detach from the flow of time. My consciousness floats above the river. I see a thousand thousand paths. Ask me where a leaf will fall, and I couldn’t tell you. There are too many possibilities. There’s so much noise, like I’m trying to follow a drop of rain from the clouds to a lake, then over a waterfall and pick it out in the river two leagues downstream. If I can touch someone or chant rhymes, it gives me focus. Sometimes.” Dorian seemed to be looking through the wall, lost in reverie.

“Sometimes,” he said, “sometimes when I transcend the river, I start to see a pattern. Then it isn’t like water, it’s a fabric made up of every insignificant decision of every peasant as much as it is of great decisions by kings. As I begin to comprehend the vastness and intricacy of that skein, my mind starts to pull apart.” He blinked, and he turned his eyes to Kylar. He squinted, as if even looking at him caused him pain.

“Sometimes it’s merely images, totally unbidden. I can see the anguish on the young man’s face who will watch me die, but I don’t know who he is or when that will be or why he’ll care. I know that tomorrow, a square vase will give you hope. I see a little girl crying over your body. She’s trying to pull you away but you’re too heavy. Away from what? I don’t know.”

Kylar felt a chill. “A girl? When?” Was it Ilena Drake?