The problem with premonitions was that they were irresistible. He’d come to awareness in midevening when something jolted him. It actually made him feel energized, which he took as a good sign. Then he decided it was a premonition. From there he had to follow his sense of things.

Well, his sense, and the stones.

There had been a dozen of them so far. Black pebbles-unremarkable save for their uniform smoothness. They reminded him of Nelesquin’s scrying stones, which Pravak had grown to hate more and more. They generated premonitions, and Nelesquin relied on them too heavily.

Pravak slid his swords into the harness on his back and set out. He found the first stone in the corridor outside his chamber in Quunkun, and the next in the road. He followed them as he would a trail, knowing that someone leaving so obvious a set of clues intended him to follow. That raised the spectre of an ambush, but this did not concern the vanyesh. A side from Nelesquin, Qiro, and perhaps Qiro’s grandson, he feared nothing in Moriande.

He sighed-or, rather, his shoulders slumped as if he were sighing. His lack of lungs had done nothing to strip away the habit. He had imagined Ciras Dejote would give him more of a fight, but the young man had not. If he truly was the reincarnation of Jogot Yirxan, the rebirth had been flawed. Now the swordsman was flawed-another useless enemy.

Pravak was aware that Virisken Soshir lurked beyond the river, but wasn’t concerned about him. The man was, after all, mortal. Though they had never seriously come to blows in the past, Pravak had seen him fight. While Soshir was good, he was hardly invincible.

The stones led Pravak across South Moriande and to Kojaikun. Here the vanyesh ’s dread deepened, because he recognized what had awakened him. Many of the vanyesh harvested the magic from the city. The thaumston fibers he wore as a long queue dragged magic from the circles. Pravak’s new vitality meant he was drawing more power because no one else was harvesting it.

The others are dead.

That shook him. The vanyesh had hardly been immortal. Down through the eons, survivors had changed-abandoning their physical forms for constructs they’d created in Tolwreen. Many of his comrades had ridiculed him for having his skeleton wrapped in a silver/ thaumston alloy upon which magic formulae could be inscribed, but he’d outlived those who doubted him.

Even as he bent and picked up the final stone, he realized he was the last of those who had preserved Nelesquin’s legacy.

The Grand Hall in Kojaikun had been transformed into barracks for the vanyesh. Not only was it spacious enough, and pleasingly decorated, but the Keru had used it as a place to train. Magic lingered there, making it a welcome sanctuary.

Now a mausoleum.

A Viruk waited in the center of the hall, armed with a Keru spear. Around him, the rest of the vanyesh lay scattered as if a child had destroyed them in a tantrum. The vanyesh sparkled in the wan lamplight, each one beyond repair.

The Viruk grinned with a mouthful of ivory needles. “I would have killed you at Quunkun, but I thought you should see this.”

“Is it your work?”

The Viruk toed a hawk’s feather. “The Desei shadows. You killed their prince. The Mother of Shadows has avenged him.”

“I am not afraid of you, Rekarafi. I have killed Viruk before.”

“I know. I have heard the tales.” The Viruk slowly began to spin the spear. “Two at once, it’s been said.”

“Both bigger than you.” Pravak dropped the stones, drew his swords, and let his tentacles snake out. “You are a fool to avenge them after so many years.”

“It’s not them I seek to avenge.” Rekarafi opened a hand. “You slew a Keru of my acquaintance. I avenge her.”

“Then you shall die just as quickly as she did.” Pravak darted forward, his tentacles whipping low back and forth. The moment the Viruk leaped above them, Pravak would cross his swords right through his midsection. The tactic had worked before and the Viruk didn’t give off a sense of jaedun, so he knew the fight was over before it began.

Only Rekarafi never leaped. He lifted one foot, then the other, bringing each firmly down on a tentacle. He thrust the spear forward, catching the swords before they reached him, then snapped the spear’s butt end up. The iron cap just missed his pelvis, but caught his spine solidly and drove him back.

The Viruk retreated, crouching. “The stones, do you know what they are?”

Pravak slid into a tiger stance. “Scrying stones?”

“No. Ghoal Nuan. Soulstones. They will weigh you down in the grave. You’ll remain in the Underworld forever.”

Pravak laughed. His tentacles withdrew and wrapped around to armor his spine. Metal talons scraped on the stone. He inched forward, both swords raised. “ If you put me in the grave.”

He attacked, his blades a blur. The spear spun, battering the blades away, but Pravak moved with them. From the first form to the fourth, then the fifth and the ninth, following no pattern, but flowing from one moment to the next. The Viruk ducked and deflected, blocked and riposted, but always gave ground.

Like a tiger’s claws, Pravak’s blades tore into whatever they touched. They clove through tables and shattered benches. Down from shredded bedding filled the air. Teapot shards crunched underfoot. Sparks flew as swords gouged the floor and further scattered bits and pieces of dead vanyesh.

Faster and faster the swords flew. Pravak shifted from Tiger to Mantis, then Scorpion and back. Rekarafi remained on the defensive, retreating around the room. Occasionally the spear’s blade might score a rib, and the butt end slammed fully into his sternum once, but it did not stop the vanyesh ’s offensive. But for everything he threw at the Viruk there was a counter, and the Viruk looked no closer to tiring than he was.

Pravak lunged with both blades. Rekarafi brought the spear down and around in a parry that trapped the blades on the floor. The combatants snarled, faces close enough that Pravak could feel the Viruk’s moist breath.

The Viruk laughed. “They may have been bigger than me, but they were not me.”

Pravak whipped one tentacle around the Viruk’s arms, binding his elbows together. The other wrapped around an ankle and yanked. The Viruk started to go down, but Pravak caught him by the throat and lifted him from the ground.

“But they were both as stupid and died just as easily.”

He began to tighten his grip, intent on snapping the Viruk’s neck. Muscles bunched, thwarting him, so he redoubled his effort.

What’s happening? It shouldn’t have taken this much effort. He’d broken iron posts in his grip. Something was very wrong.

The Viruk spread his arms and the lifeless tentacle slid off easily. The other one slithered from his ankle. Pravak’s knees buckled. He dropped into a kneeling position, but only remained upright because the Viruk had grabbed his wrist and steadied him.

I don’t understand. Pravak wanted to say the words, but the mechanism that allowed him to speak had failed.

“You forgot something, Pravak Helos. You made yourself into a creature of magic.” Rekarafi tore the vanyesh ’s hand off and flung it against the far wall. “The Viruk existed before magic. We discovered it, learned how to use it. How to contain it. We also learned to absorb it. I have absorbed it from you.”

The metallic tinkling of his skeleton’s collapse sounded distant. Pravak tried to keep shock from his metal face. He would not wear a surprised expression to the grave.

The Viruk plucked his skull from his spine and everything crashed to the floor around him. Rekarafi held it high and peered up at him. “Your head, I’ll take. I’ll place it at the highest point in the city, and you will live long enough to watch your dream die.”

Ciras winced as a cadre of gyanrigot soldiers marched through the factory. The sight of gyanrigot smiths making soldiers still made his flesh crawl. No mercy in them, just efficiency. The same blows that shaped metal would break bone and spill blood. It might be necessary this time, and even the next, but what would happen when it wasn’t and someone used them anyway?