Beyond The Shadows (31 page)

Kylar nodded silently. To hear Durzo say it without scoffing was alien, and the man seemed to marvel at it himself.

Durzo plowed ahead. “I knew your regard wasn’t easily won, and I knew you’d seen darker sides of me than I’d let even most
of my wives see.” He chuckled. “You know, I can ignore it when Count Drake loves me. He’s a saint. He cares about everybody.
No offense, but you’re no saint.”

Kylar smiled.

Durzo studied the fire. “Second, I . . .” He cleared his throat. “I’d tried to root out feeling anything at all with drinking
and whoring and killing and isolation, and I’d made myself into a monster, but I’d still failed. I still cared about you more
than I cared about myself. That tells me something about myself.” He grew quiet.

“And third?” Kylar prompted.

“Third, ah hell, I don’t remember. Oh, wait. I spent years beating into your skull how hard and unfair life is. And I wasn’t
wrong. There’s no guarantee that justice will win out or that a noble sacrifice will make any difference. But when it does,
there’s something that still swells my chest. There’s magic in that. Deep magic. It tells me that’s the way things are supposed
to be. Why? How? Hell, I don’t know. This spring I’ll turn seven hundred, and I still don’t have it figured out. Most poor
bastards only get a few decades. Speaking of which . . .” Durzo cleared his throat. “I’ve got bad news.”

“Speaking of which which?” Kylar asked, chest tightening.

“Life being unfair and all that.”

“Oh, great. What is it?”

“Luc Graesin? Kid you died on the wheel to save?”

“It was more for Logan than for Luc, but what about him?”

“Hanged himself,” Durzo said.

“What? Who killed him? Scarred Wrable?” Kylar could see Momma K deciding that even a remote threat to Logan would have to
be eliminated.

“No, he really hanged himself.”

“Are you joking? After what I did for him? That asshole!”

Durzo grabbed his blanket and lay down, resting his head on his saddle. “Letting someone die for you can be tough. If anyone
should understand that, it’s you.”

. . .  get up in three seconds, I’m gonna nail you with a biscuit.” Kylar struggled to open his eyes, and the voice went on
without even slowing. “One, two, three.” Kylar’s eyes shot open, and he snatched the hard biscuit out of the air with such
force that it exploded into crumb shrapnel.

“Dammit,” he said, combing biscuit pieces out of his hair. “What’d you do that for?”

Durzo was grinning from ear to ear. “Fun,” he said.

Kylar scowled. There was something different about his master. His eyes seemed a little more round, his skin a little lighter,
the shirt he was wearing tighter across the chest and shoulders. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Eating breakfast,” Durzo said, chomping into another biscuit.

“I mean your face!”

“What? Pimple?” Durzo asked, patting his forehead, the word coming out “pimpuh?” around the biscuit.

“Durzo! You went to bed Ymmuri, and you woke up halfbreed.”

“Oh, that. What, you want to hear more? I talked last night more than I’ve talked in a hundred years.” Kylar thought he might
not be exaggerating. “You need to learn everything at once?”

“You’re mortal now. And you’re old. You could keel over at any moment.”

“Hm, you have a point,” Durzo said. “You saddle the horses, I’ll talk.”

Kylar rolled his eyes—and began tending to the horses.

“You’ve tried illusory masks. I’ve seen your whole little scary-black-mask thing that the Sa’kagé found so impressive.”

“Thanks,” Kylar griped. It had been impressive, dammit. “Wait, when did you see that?”

“In Caernarvon.”

“You came to Caernarvon? When did you—”

“Too late to save Jarl, but early enough to save Elene. Now stop interrupting,” Durzo said. “You might have noticed there
are some drawbacks to making masks of real faces, especially with disguises of people of different height from yours. I made
some good masks in my time, but it was horrible work, and if someone touched you or it even started raining, the illusion
would break. Then one time I died. Got a leg hacked off and bled to death. When I came back, as always, my body was whole.
Look at yourself—dead six times and not a scar. How can that be? How could I regrow an arm?”

“I thought you said it was a leg,” Kylar said, throwing a saddle over Tribe’s back. For once, the brute didn’t try to bite
him. “And what’s that about Elene?”

“It was an arm. Just remembered. I’ll tell you about Elene later. What I figured out is that somehow our bodies know what
shape we’re supposed to be. I mean, when you cut any man’s arm, arm skin grows back there, not a nose or another head. Why?
Because the body knows what’s supposed to be where. I figured that if that was the case, all I had to do to make a perfect
disguise was change the instructions. Hah, if only it were that simple. I figured out a few things along the way. Like Ladeshians
aren’t just really tanned. And if you change your height dramatically, expect to be uncoordinated for a year. And don’t mess
with your eyesight. And don’t change things about your body that you merely don’t like. Pretty soon you’ll be so damn beautiful
people will stop on the streets to watch you—it makes for a lousy disguise. Anyway, it took me—I don’t know—a hundred years?
I have about twenty bodies I do now. That is, bodies I’ve spent enough time in that I know how they work, understand their
stride, their movement, their quirks. Twenty is probably too many, but I got nervous once when I found two different paintings
of me made two hundred years apart from different sides of Midcyru and obviously me in both of them. Some Alitaeran collector
had the two hanging side-by-side in his study. I’d moved to Alitaera to start a new life and I was using that same damn body.”

“Wait, you’re telling me you could have chosen any face? And you chose the nasty ugly Durzo Blint face?”

“That’s my real face,” Durzo said, offended.

Blood rushed to Kylar’s cheeks. “Oh, by the God, I’m so sorry. I mean, I’m sorry I said that, not that your face is . . .”

“Gotcha,” Durzo said.

Kylar pursed his lips. “Bastard.”

“Anyway, it takes time to make the transition, especially when you start, and doing it halfway can be rather horrifying. We’re
on the trail, so we may meet people. If the skin on the upper half of my body is blackest Ladeshian, but my legs are white,
or if half my face is young and half old, folks don’t take it too well. I can actually do it much faster now, but I figured
I’d show you body magic that’s merely intensely difficult before I show you the damn-near impossible stuff.”

“Wait, does that mean you can make yourself look like anything? So you could be a girl?”

“I don’t want to hear your twisted fantasies,” Durzo said.

“Hey!”

“I’ve never been a girl or an animal. I have a small fear of getting stuck: once I made a disguise that I was a man without
a trace of Talent. What was supposed to be a quick, one-month disguise while I infiltrated the Chantry instead took me a decade
to undo and cost me my chance to recover the silver ka’kari,” Durzo said. “Being stuck as a fat Modaini, bad. Being stuck
as a woman, unthinkable.”

“So why are you changing now? And what into?”

“I’ll look like a fifty-year-old, rather affable Waeddryner count, who appears to have a small Talent that he’s never tapped.
Because the reason I’m leaving the woman I love behind and going with you to the Chantry—not my favorite place—is that I want
to meet my daughter. In fact, I’d appreciate your help getting the disguise right. I’d like her to look at me and say, ‘oh,
I have his eyes.’”

But Kylar wasn’t interested in that yet. He paused. “Master? What does it mean? The Wolf called me Nameless. If I learn to
do what you do, I’ll be faceless, too. If we can be anyone, who are we?”

Durzo smirked, and even in another face, that bemused smirk was Durzo Blint through and through. “The Wolf doesn’t know what
the hell he’s talking about. I had a delusion once that every new life I started was new. Our gift doesn’t give us so much
freedom—or terror. What we are is Night Angels, of an order ancient when I joined it. What it means to be a Night Angel is
a harder question. Why do we see the coranti?” At Kylar’s questioning look, Durzo said, “The unclean. And seeing them isn’t a compulsion, it’s a sensitivity. There was
a time when I could see a lie, but in the year before the black abandoned me, I could barely see a murderer. What does it
mean? Why was I chosen?

“Jorsin sometimes had the gift of prophecy. He told me I needed to take the black. ‘All history rests in your hands, my friend,’
he told me. I believed him. I would have walked through a wall of flame for that man. But a hundred years later, all my friends
were dead, the world descended into a dark age, and no one was even pursuing me. Maybe my grand place in history, my whole
purpose, was to keep the ka’kari safe for seven hundred years until I could give it to you. You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t
seem entirely satisfying. Imagine rallying an army: ‘Come on, men! Let’s get together and . . .  wait!’ But then again if
reality is hard and flat and unjust, then it’s better to adjust to what really is than to complain that it isn’t what you wish. That was what made me lose faith in prophecies, in purpose, even in life, I
guess. But having lost it, soon I doubted my lack of faith. There were niggling hints of meaning everywhere. At the end of
the day, you choose what you believe and you live with the consequences.”

“So that’s it?”

“That’s what?”

“‘Choose what you believe and live with the consequences’ is all you’ve learned after seven hundred years? We’re fucking immortal,
and that’s all you’re going to tell me of why?”

Faster than Kylar remembered his master could move, Durzo’s hand lashed out. His backhand cracked across Kylar’s cheek and
jaw. It stunned Kylar. A backhand hurt the person who delivered it nearly as much as the person who received it, so the only
reason Durzo would choose a backhand was for the contempt implicit in it.

They stood looking at each other, silent. Mixed with Durzo’s frustration, Kylar could see regret, but Durzo didn’t apologize.
Apologizing was one skill Acaelus Thorne hadn’t mastered in seven centuries.

“Kid, every place I’ve turned left, you’ve turned right, and now you want me to tell you your destiny? Would it mean anything
to you if I told you?”

Kylar said, “It would tell me where to turn right.”

Despite himself, Durzo grinned. But it wasn’t enough to bridge the sudden gap. Kylar could see now that his rejection of the
lessons Durzo had tried to pass on had cut Durzo deeply—even if Durzo now agreed some of those lessons had been wrong. At
the same time, Durzo was saying the same thing that the Wolf had told Kylar long ago. Kylar had never accepted other people’s
answers: not Durzo’s bitter practicality, not Momma K’s cynicism, not Count Drake’s piety, and not Elene’s idealism. Durzo
was right about choosing what you believe and living with the consequences.

“I just . . .” Kylar trailed off. “We’re immortal. We’re Night Angels. I don’t know what it means. I don’t know why we’re
this way, or what we’re supposed to do with it. Sometimes I feel like a god, and other times I don’t feel like I change anything.
If I’m going to live forever, I want it to be for something. I mean, you can’t tell me that your destiny has been to hold the ka’kari for seven hundred years until I came
along. That’s ridiculous. Terrible. It’s not good enough. You’re a great man, not a lockbox.” Kylar scowled. Gods, he’d just
given Durzo a backhanded compliment—exactly how Durzo gave compliments to him.

Durzo’s little grin told him he’d noticed, but he could also tell that the compliment meant a lot to the man. In all the times
Kylar had been irritated that his master never properly appreciated how well Kylar did, he’d never really thought that Durzo
might want to be appreciated too. Kylar hadn’t bothered to tell Durzo how excellent he thought he was; he figured it was obvious.
Maybe that was another knife that cut both ways.

“Being a lockbox wasn’t the destiny I chose,” Durzo said. “Right or wrong—or right or left—I’ve chosen to seek the ka’kari,
take them, and scatter them so those who would use them for evil can’t. I don’t know if that’s what Jorsin foresaw, but it’s
what I’ve chosen. Has it been meaningful and satisfying? Sometimes. I’ve had some good lives and some that were just damn
awful. Now that you bear the black, I can lay my burden and my destiny down. Now I get different choices. So I’ll train you
until spring and see my daughter as much as I can. Then there’s a woman I have to ask to love a man who doesn’t deserve it.
Your choices? Well, that’s your shit.” He smirked, acknowledging he was being a bastard.

Kylar sighed. He loved Durzo, but the man sure was a pain in the ass.

From an older brother, the compulsion weave is weak, Your Holiness,” Hopper said. “It won’t hold a determined aetheling for
long.”

“I know. I was the son who was able to break it when my father used it on me,” Dorian said. He’d had another dream last night,
and again couldn’t remember it, but it had left him with a headache again. His Talent for prophecy was healing faster than
he’d expected, but for the time being, it was useless to him. He couldn’t remember his dreams, and the only thing that banished
the pain was using the vir. It put him in a foul mood.

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness. I’d forgotten.”

The plan had come together with frightening ease. Dorian was his father’s son. He’d spent days thinking about what he might
have missed, and had found no flaw. “The oath is a distraction. You tell them that their reward for swearing loyalty will
be choosing a concubine to marry. That will sound like a very southron thing to do, very weak. It will give the aethelings
hope. Hope—and lust—will keep them from organizing a defense. After each chooses, I want him led out by that concubine past
his brothers, who will be waiting in line. The women should be dressed beautifully—and of course, they should know nothing
except that they are to lead the aetheling to one of the empty upper apartments. Each aetheling should be very lightly guarded,
but heavily watched. You understand? These are my brothers; they’re not stupid. On the way, kill them. If you have a handful
of soldiers and three or four Vürdmeisters you know we can trust, that should be enough to take care of all of them—at least
with the compulsion spell in place. Their faces are not to be destroyed. I will require a precise accounting and viewing of
the bodies. When you’re done, isolate any of the Godking’s seed who are too young to show whether they are wytchborn. Kill
them. Induce abortions on the pregnant concubines. Letting any grow up to see who’s wytchborn will give my enemies chances
to smuggle them out.”

“Very prudent, Your Holiness,” Hopper said. His only expression was appreciation for a solid plan.

It was brutal, but it wasn’t cruel. Dorian took no joy in this. He would strike once to the root, and rip out much of what
made this kingdom a hell for its people. This way was kinder than waiting for dozens of aethelings to coerce hundreds of others
into their plots. Dorian could wait, and have executions every month for years, and his people would live in terror as dark
as his father had encouraged, or he could be as brutal as the north itself, and his people would live in peace, unafraid.
It would be a clean slate, a new start. Dorian would be Wanhope not for his own despair, but because those who opposed him
must despair.

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Monstrous, but prudent.”

Hopper didn’t know how to respond. He bowed low. The Godking dismissed him.

It was a horror to be a god. On his wedding day, Godking Wanhope waded in blood. He’d known that his father had one hundred
forty-six children, but seeing them dead and oozing and stinking, expressions frozen in death, bodies still warm, not all
the blood congealed, was something else entirely. With vir, he blotted out his sense of smell as he examined the boys.

He’d run out of suitable concubines before he’d run out of aethelings to slaughter. That meant that some of the women—each
of whom had witnessed the murder of an aetheling she had expected to be her new master—had to make two trips. Only those who’d
been splattered with blood were excused. It had worked though, because the aethelings who’d come later were the youngest,
and the least likely to pick up on a concubine’s anxiety.

They’d got them all. Three of the older boys—three!—had broken the compulsion and fought, killing one Vürdmeister and two
soldiers. In a perverse way, Dorian was proud of the boys.

Godking Wanhope took his time, steeled against the sight of dead children. Vipers, all of them. He was the fluke; he had always
been the only one of his brothers with any moral sense. Vipers couldn’t be tamed. He couldn’t flinch now. He had to know if
the job was done, or if he needed to be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his reign for a Vürdmeister who could hide
his vir and betray the Godking himself—as he had in his own youth. He paid special attention to those whose faces had been
damaged. But in each case, he could still smell the faint residue of his compulsion spell on their flesh, and he’d tied it
in an unusual way so that he would recognize his own work. That was why he had to examine the bodies immediately.

If a Vürdmeister had betrayed him and hidden an aetheling, the traitor would have to find a boy of the correct age, kill him
and destroy his face, change his clothing, examine the Godking’s weave—and notice that it had been altered and how it had
been altered—and lay it on the dead boy himself. It was all possible but barely, and by the time he was finished inspecting
the boys, the Godking was sure it hadn’t been done.

The next room was worse, though there was no blood in it except what came in on the Godking’s white robes. Hopper had gathered
all the wives and concubines. The fifteen women who had been pregnant were lined up against one wall. The Godking walked past
them, touching swollen bellies and feeling no life within. Then he moved past the rest, feeling to see if any were pregnant.

He took his time. A weave to hide a pregnancy was easier magically than disguising the dead, but a bigger risk for a Vürdmeister.
There was no guarantee that the hidden child would be wytchborn, much less suitable for an ambitious Vürdmeister to ride to
the Khalidoran throne.

As he moved from woman to woman, he noticed something disquieting. There was no hatred in their eyes. He had made them help
him murder one hundred forty-six children. He had killed their unborn, but few wept. More looked at him with adoration, worship.
He had done something beyond their comprehension, and it had worked perfectly. In short, he had acted like the god they expected
him to be—powerful, terrifying, inscrutable.

“This afternoon,” he said, “each of you will have a choice. As you know, the tradition is for wives and concubines to join
the late Godking on his pyre, except for those whom the new Godking wishes to save for himself. You have served me well. I
would give all of you a place in my harem. Garoth’s aethelings will join him in the fire. Let them serve him in the afterlife.
But if it is your wish, I will not forbid you to join them.”

Now, the women reacted as he would have expected. Some broke down and wept; others stood taller and prouder. Some were still
uncomprehending. But in moments, all dropped prostrate, hands stretched out for his feet. I am walking blasphemy.

“Is there anything else?” he asked them.

One of the women, a curvaceous teen from the upper harem, raised two fingers.

“Yes, Olanna?”

She cleared her throat three times before she could speak. “Sia, Your Holiness. She wasn’t counted among the pregnant girls.
She got real sick and went to the meisters so she wouldn’t lose her baby. She never came back.”

Dorian’s stomach twisted. It was like hearing his own death sentence, twenty years before the fact. He wondered if he’d dreamed
of this and was only now remembering the dream, or if his dread was purely natural. He looked at Hopper, who’d paled. Hopper
served the lower harem, so the detail had escaped him, but he still looked aghast to have missed it. Dorian gestured and the
man shuffled out of the room as quickly as his stilted gait would allow. Wanhope would send men to hunt this woman and whatever
Vürdmeister had taken her, but they wouldn’t find her. Wanhope had forgotten the first rule of massacring innocents: one always
gets away.