probably too late.”
So that was why Feir hadn’t used magic in fighting against the pit wyrm. Smart.
“You have taken my ceuros,” Lantano Garuwashi said with a moral outrage that Kylar didn’t understand. Then he remembered. A sa’ceurai’s soul was his
sword. They believed that literally. What sort of abomination would steal another man’s soul?
“Did you not take it from someone else?” Kylar asked.
“The gods gave me the blade,” Lantano Garuwashi said. He was quivering with rage and loathing, despair fighting to the fore
in his eyes. “Your theft is not honorable.”
“No,” Kylar admitted. “Nor, I’m afraid, am I.”
A plaintive howl unlike anything Kylar had ever heard ripped through the wood. It was high and mournful, inhuman.
“Too late,” Feir said, his voice strangled. “The Hunter’s coming.”
The Wolf had told Kylar to stay back forty paces from the Hunter’s Wood, so Kylar gave it fifty. He looked through the lesser
trees of the natural forest to the preternatural height and bulk of the sequoys. He felt small, caught up in events vast beyond
his comprehension. He heard the whistling of something speeding toward him. He hefted Curoch and threw it as far into the
Wood as he could. It flew like an arrow. As it crossed into the air over the wood, it burned like a star falling to earth.
The entire forest began to glow golden.
The whistling stopped.
10
The three men stood side by side, staring into the wood. Feir thought that he was the only one who was properly terrified.
Kylar had distracted the Hunter by throwing Curoch into the wood, but there was nothing to stop it from coming back.
Kylar calmly folded his legs and sat on the forest floor. The black skin retreated into the young man, leaving him in his
underclothes. He studied the stump where his metallic right hand had been, barely noticing as the Wood’s autumnal glow deepened
to a bloody red and then began to lighten to green.
Lantano Garuwashi, now soulless, stared with disbelief. But he wasn’t seeing anything except the disappearance of Ceur’caelestos.
The man who would be king was suddenly aceuran—swordless, an outlaw, an exile, not even to be acknowledged. The cruel rain of implications was beating his future to dust.
In the last week, Feir had seen this man act publicly as if Ceur’caelestos had been destined for his hands. But in private
moments, Feir had seen glimpses of the young hedge sa’ceurai with an iron sword, who knew that whatever excellence he attained,
he would never be accepted among those born to greater blades. It was an enormous turnaround for a man who’d reconciled himself
to hard realities—and now he was staring a new, much harder reality in the face.
Feir wondered how long it would be before Garuwashi decided to kill himself. Lantano Garuwashi wasn’t a man who would easily
give up his life. He believed in himself too much. But this disgrace would surely overwhelm that.
The thought left Feir oddly hollow. Why should he mourn Lantano Garuwashi’s death? It would mean Cenaria would escape another
brutal occupation and Feir would be released from his service to a hard and difficult man. But Feir didn’t want Garuwashi
to die. He respected him.
Magic flashed so intensely Feir’s vision went white. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Kylar gasped.
Blinking away tears, Feir looked at him. Kylar appeared unchanged: still half-naked, still staring toward the wood. He stood
slowly and stretched his arms.
“Much better,” Kylar said, grinning.
He had both arms. He was whole. Kylar shook himself and his skin was cloaked in black again. He didn’t cover his face with
the grim mask of judgment; this time, he carried a slim black sword in his hand.
Lantano Garuwashi dropped to his knees and spoke to Feir, “‘This path lies before you. Fight Khalidor and become a great king.’
This you told me, and I heard only my heart’s desire: that I
So that was why Feir hadn’t used magic in fighting against the pit wyrm. Smart.
“You have taken my ceuros,” Lantano Garuwashi said with a moral outrage that Kylar didn’t understand. Then he remembered. A sa’ceurai’s soul was his
sword. They believed that literally. What sort of abomination would steal another man’s soul?
“Did you not take it from someone else?” Kylar asked.
“The gods gave me the blade,” Lantano Garuwashi said. He was quivering with rage and loathing, despair fighting to the fore
in his eyes. “Your theft is not honorable.”
“No,” Kylar admitted. “Nor, I’m afraid, am I.”
A plaintive howl unlike anything Kylar had ever heard ripped through the wood. It was high and mournful, inhuman.
“Too late,” Feir said, his voice strangled. “The Hunter’s coming.”
The Wolf had told Kylar to stay back forty paces from the Hunter’s Wood, so Kylar gave it fifty. He looked through the lesser
trees of the natural forest to the preternatural height and bulk of the sequoys. He felt small, caught up in events vast beyond
his comprehension. He heard the whistling of something speeding toward him. He hefted Curoch and threw it as far into the
Wood as he could. It flew like an arrow. As it crossed into the air over the wood, it burned like a star falling to earth.
The entire forest began to glow golden.
The whistling stopped.
10
The three men stood side by side, staring into the wood. Feir thought that he was the only one who was properly terrified.
Kylar had distracted the Hunter by throwing Curoch into the wood, but there was nothing to stop it from coming back.
Kylar calmly folded his legs and sat on the forest floor. The black skin retreated into the young man, leaving him in his
underclothes. He studied the stump where his metallic right hand had been, barely noticing as the Wood’s autumnal glow deepened
to a bloody red and then began to lighten to green.
Lantano Garuwashi, now soulless, stared with disbelief. But he wasn’t seeing anything except the disappearance of Ceur’caelestos.
The man who would be king was suddenly aceuran—swordless, an outlaw, an exile, not even to be acknowledged. The cruel rain of implications was beating his future to dust.
In the last week, Feir had seen this man act publicly as if Ceur’caelestos had been destined for his hands. But in private
moments, Feir had seen glimpses of the young hedge sa’ceurai with an iron sword, who knew that whatever excellence he attained,
he would never be accepted among those born to greater blades. It was an enormous turnaround for a man who’d reconciled himself
to hard realities—and now he was staring a new, much harder reality in the face.
Feir wondered how long it would be before Garuwashi decided to kill himself. Lantano Garuwashi wasn’t a man who would easily
give up his life. He believed in himself too much. But this disgrace would surely overwhelm that.
The thought left Feir oddly hollow. Why should he mourn Lantano Garuwashi’s death? It would mean Cenaria would escape another
brutal occupation and Feir would be released from his service to a hard and difficult man. But Feir didn’t want Garuwashi
to die. He respected him.
Magic flashed so intensely Feir’s vision went white. It lasted only a fraction of a second. Kylar gasped.
Blinking away tears, Feir looked at him. Kylar appeared unchanged: still half-naked, still staring toward the wood. He stood
slowly and stretched his arms.
“Much better,” Kylar said, grinning.
He had both arms. He was whole. Kylar shook himself and his skin was cloaked in black again. He didn’t cover his face with
the grim mask of judgment; this time, he carried a slim black sword in his hand.
Lantano Garuwashi dropped to his knees and spoke to Feir, “‘This path lies before you. Fight Khalidor and become a great king.’
This you told me, and I heard only my heart’s desire: that I
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