“Doubt it not, those that can hear my words. Once beaten, we, who once were the masters, become the mastered.”

from the teachings of Shaz Vharhisti

Sleep.

Sweet,

final,

death….

Is there nothing more?

There is me, my nephew, my cousin. Give me space within where I might dwell. Give me your eyes, that I might see.

Dawn split over the high dome of Mar Alvis, bright lances pinning him against rough mortar. Laracae’s body slid down the brick face of a wall until he could slide no more. Lonn Tirehl felt the slick wet stone in the alley; smelled rain and refuse and regret; heard the misery of a city brought to its knees, not in prayer, but in fear. He drank deeply, filling his cup, feeding that which gave him the strength to seize the life now spilling forth like heart blood from a slit throat, feeding his shirrasah.

The crimson needles of morning pierced the shrouded horizon. He averted his eyes—Laracae’s eyes—drawing strength from solid land.

They went underground!

Laracae had succeeded in bringing the Naharasii Horror to land; set them loose to fulfill a purpose years of hatred had cultivated. Running. Running. Running wild into the burning night to remind the people of Faerkirke what nightmares were made of. Running with boiling hatred in pursuit of their quarry. Running even into the bowels of the earth…his stomach turned, bile rising in his throat until he could scarcely breathe.

Footfalls and guttural shouts urged a hasty retreat. He searched the ground for his nephew’s sword before taking refuge in cool shadows; only his will kept Laracae’s exhausted body in motion. The cry of manti filtered down twisting streets of gaily painted shops, their windows put out like the eyes of the enemy. Akahan’s dark intent had awakened them early from their dens; hunger drove them south. Now they ran amok, feasting on the dead and the dying.

Encroaching despair infiltrated what little remained of Laracae’s consciousness, and lonn Tirehl threw himself at the gates of madness, pressing himself into every nerve and fiber, seeking to perfect what he had begun with his resurrection of the science which created the j’thirrin. Laracae needed to be so much more than a shadow. The living embodiment of his god. A sacrifice of blood and bone the likes of which had not been offered in years. Once, he had sought to capture the soul of the fish-boy. Had failed. Had burned. Failure bred determination. There was yet time to accomplish all. A riderless calico esri clattered by. He smiled.

Laracae. He twisted deeper, hooking his claws, excising festering madness that did nothing to serve his purpose. Whose shirrasah has been increased this day, my nephew?

Yours, my uncle…yours….

No one stopped him as he proceeded to the long pier, passing through shadow and half-light until he reached Laracae’s damaged airship, tethered in the harbor like a captive bird that had lost the will to fly. The city cried for relief, but the locals had reclaimed the skies for their own, leaving the damaged ship for the dead. He might have been a ghost for all the attention paid him as he ascended to the flight deck and cast off. The ship followed the tide—a cumbersome course, but he dared not risk the engines. Let her drift. Let those now watching her departure assume she would founder on the Shika’s Teeth at the mouth of the straits long before she ever made another ascent. He would seek the skies later.

The swaying deck was a cradle for the dead and dying. Natives. Mercenaries. Pirates from islands that had no names. He bent over one, and another, and another, until his fingers rested on the bloodied cheek of Laracae’s kethna. One of the boy’s ears had been torn away, the side of his face spoiled by tooth marks, his eyes wide, mouth grim with horror. Tears came unbidden, a curious sensation, wetting his fingers even as Laracae’s feeble flesh vomited on the bloodstained deck. His vision shifted away from Naharasii desecration as Laracae shambled down the steps to the control room, fumbling with the door before finally tearing it from its hinges. He stared at the gaping hole; the latch dropped to the ship’s deck, his heart—their heart—beating a wild rhythm. He closed his eyes—his! —and drew slow breaths, battling for control. He had prepared too long to lose his hold on this one, endeavoring to prepare a suitable host for his master. Laracae was not expendable. Not yet.

He drew a jewel-encrusted vial from a cabinet, lifting it to his nose. As one, they inhaled the bitter sweetness. As one, they dipped bloody fingers into the tears of Akahan and drank. After that, piloting a ship to the stars would have been easy.

High above Naharasii lands, safe in skies the noble warriors of the Alliance would not dare to enter, Laracae would sleep. Utterly peaceful. Utterly vulnerable.

Sleep, my nephew, my cousin. Dream of all we have accomplished. All we will accomplish. Our work is not yet finished. Our enemies are clever. Over such our victory will be sweeter than a virgin’s fear.

He let go their fragile link. Down, down spiraled he, following the blood trail left by the Naharasii, chancing even to cross the threshold into the womb of the earth before his eyes snapped open and he gasped. Outside his desert citadel, a place whose original purpose he had usurped, the rising wind was a reassuring joy, where before it had been a nuisance. Drawing breath, he mounted air currents, swirling, drowning, seeking truth. I saw you. I touched you. Where are you, little fish?

Silence and the bright scent of lavender twisted on the wind before the snapping jaws of a kaio delivered the answer.

The sea-spawn child was either incredibly lucky or skilled beyond reason…or…no. He cast aside any notion that the god of the Kynseis was in any way involved. Not that one. Not one who stood apart from the Seven, whose face remained hidden from his Believers. Whose very essence had once been spilled for those so unworthy they denied his deity.

Lakari sat beside him, a goblet of wine clutched in his hands. Lonn Tirehl regarded him for a long moment, remembering Laracae’s dead kethna, remembering Lian Kynsei. A beautiful child, much like this one. He reached toward his son, tasting fear right through the whorls of his fingertips. Deep within himself, where the shadow of Akahan indwelt, a hunger roared to life. A hunger that longed to be satisfied. Lakari recoiled, gaze flicking up briefly, terrified by the fire lonn Tirehl felt burning in his gray eyes. He smiled, and that which dwelt now within him smiled too.

Soon the desert would flower.

Soon the sea would burn.

And the blood of the wolf would turn to ash.