And though Keles knew it was impossible, Qiro dipped his brush in the Gold River, and began to paint in stone.

If not for the urgency burning in his breast, Dunos would have felt ashamed of himself. Horns blared and drums pounded, calling everyone to their posts. People shouted orders. The thunder of marching feet and the groan of ballistae being cocked echoed throughout the city. Something was happening. Something terrible. He should be there alongside Ranai and Deshiel.

But his master needed him.

Dunos had never known anything more clearly in his entire life. If he didn’t follow Moraven Tolo, all would be lost. He believed that with the pure and innocent conviction unknown to adults-the loss of which too often goes unlamented.

He ran into the Inn of Nine Fishes and plunged into the sewers. He swam to where he found the rope and, taking hold with his good hand, began the long journey beneath the Gold River.

TheNewWorld

4th day, Month of the Bat, Year of the Rat

Last Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th Year since the Cataclysm

Grijakun, North Moriande

Free Nalenyr

Perhaps they were right after all, that taking Grijakun for my command post was tempting fate. Prince Cyron stood in its upper reaches, staring southeast toward the place where the Wolf Bridge had once stood. Though it was impossible, some invisible agency was plucking each stone from the river and layering it in place, re-creating the bridge. The stones appeared to be fluid-indeed, drops of stone fell back into the river or coated supports like wax on the side of a candle.

Magic raked ragged claws over his flesh, and Cyron surrendered himself to it. He retreated to his matrix and watched it shift. He reached out, sending troops east, reorienting siege engines, searching for more lines. A cross the river, another matrix existed. Life pulsed along it, too. Thousands of lights burned on that side, massing at the Wolf Bridge, the Tiger Bridge, and the Bear Bridge.

“Our strength is in one place, they come at another.”

The last bit of the Wolf Bridge solidified. A howling horde of half humans poured across in a torrent so violent that some of Nelesquin’s troops were crushed to death against the bridge’s side rails. Broken bodies cartwheeled through the air, then splashed into the water.

Part of that force dashed north, following the city walls, but the majority struck west along the River Road. The broad avenue allowed them to spread out. A few bled off into side streets, but most charged forward, intent on securing the Tiger Bridge footing. Magic was putting that bridge together stone by stone, and another slavering mass of wildmen waited to sprint across.

The Empress’ Bodyguards hit the wildmen just after their leading edge had swept past Black Moon Road. The Voraxani blasted into the enemy on their metal mounts. Their charge carried halfway to the river before slowing. The warriors then cut west, bursting through the wildmen. They galloped another fifty yards, wheeled about, and charged again, breaking the wildmen and scattering them into the city.

But by then the Tiger Bridge had risen again from the depths of the Gold River.

Another horde raced north.

The bridges rose from the river as Qiro Anturasi painted them onto his map. I measured the distance to him. I could cross it in seconds and cut him down. The kwajiin might prove a minor inconvenience, but the cartographer would die.

Nelesquin eclipsed him. “I’ve not forgotten you, my friend. I know how you think. Cyron’s defenses might work if Qiro draws no more bridges.” He smiled. “I’ve felt it, too. He’s found his talent and mastered it. You might be right, but he won’t get a chance to finish what he’s started.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “You’re not carrying a sword. You can’t stop me.”

He gestured. Ciras’ sword rattled across the floor, then rose to his gold-sheathed hand. “If you do not mind, Master Dejote, this will do.”

“Would it matter if I did?”

“No.” Nelesquin chuckled and bared the blade. “Oh, very good. This one has tasted you before, Virisken.”

“Not when it was in your hand.”

Nelesquin cast the scabbard aside. “Use both of your swords. I’ll let you.”

“Draw the circle.”

Nelesquin nodded and blue flames encircled the center of the floor. He stepped through them and bowed respectfully.

I entered the circle and bowed in turn. I would not dishonor the art because I had no respect for the man. Yet he seemed completely unconcerned at facing me. One sword against my two would have been suicidal even for another Mystic. But Nelesquin was more than a Mystic swordsman. He had mastered magic.

I straightened and he came for me. He slashed wildly, more Turasynd-styled fighting than any civilized discipline. His robe fluttered, flashing, his blade whistled. I ducked, dropping to a knee. The draw-cut with my right hand should have taken his right leg off at the knee.

He leaped above the cut, whirling through a somersault at once majestic and graceful. He twisted in the air, then landed and drove back at me. He lunged, I parried. I had to whirl away, just escaping a slash at my back. I leaped above another slash that struck sparks from the floor.

Landing, I drew my other sword and aimed a cut at his head.

He ducked that one, but I knew he would. The sword in my right hand whipped forward. It caught Nelesquin’s sword arm at the elbow in a cut that would sever it cleanly.

Dunos’ head broke the water’s surface and he gasped. He sucked air in, quenching the fire in his lungs. Then he waited, listening, but all he heard was the echo of water in the sewer tunnel. He waited until he caught his breath, then sloshed forward.

He paused at the iron ladder set in the wall and looked up. He would have started climbing, but a flicker of color further on caught his eye. He stared at it. It grew larger, dancing through the air, then settled on his left hand.

“What are you doing here?”

The glowing green-and-black butterfly didn’t reply. It beat its wings softly, then launched itself deeper into the sewers. It flew on about ten feet, then hovered, waiting.

Dunos followed. He worked the oilskin cover free of his sword, then bared his dagger and tucked it into his left hand. A side from the squealing of rats, the dripping of water, and his own sloshing, things remained quiet. Above people were running to and fro. It was easy to imagine that some of the dripping was blood running from the streets.

But blood didn’t concern Dunos. War didn’t frighten him. What he dreaded most in the world was failing his master. Moraven Tolo had given him the sword. Moraven Tolo had led him in battle. He’d made Dunos Prince Iekariwynal’s bodyguard. He’d trusted Dunos and he’d made him a promise.

A promise I’ll help him keep.

The butterfly fluttered around another iron ladder, so Dunos mounted it. He climbed carefully. His left arm had never been much use in climbing, so he just kept it ready with the dagger, and the butterfly perched on his shoulder.

Dunos pushed a wooden grate off at the top and emerged into a tower garden. Tzaden vines had overgrown the place. Dunos didn’t care for tzaden — flower tea. His mother had all but drowned him in it after his arm withered, and the scent of the flowers made him a bit nauseous.

The butterfly flew to the tower. It disappeared through thick vines.

Dunos shrugged his shoulders, bared his sword, and headed into the shadowed precincts of Anturasikun.

The fight is over! That thought echoed in Ciras’ mind as Moraven Tolo struck. The younger swordsman watched dispassionately despite knowing the Prince’s forearm would fly across the room, taking the sword with it. Blood would gush and then, with another quick cut, Moraven Tolo would take Nelesquin’s head.