"Aral the jack, formerly the noble Aral Kingslayer, is the best kind of hero: damaged, cynical, and despondent, yet needing only the right cause to rise from his own ashes." --Alex Bledsoe, author of Wake of the Bloody Angel Acknowledgments 1 I speak to the dead. Usually they don''t answer me back. Usually . This time was different. It''s been nine years since the death of Namara and the destruction of her temple. Nine years that saw my few remaining fellow Blades driven and harried before the forces of the archpriest called the Son of Heaven. Nine years of death and darkness and retreat.
But only recently have I learned the real reasons for the fall of my goddess and her temple. My goddess was murdered by her peers for the crime of caring more about justice than the safety and comfort of those who inhabit the Empire of Heaven. We were assassins once, killers in the service of Justice who used magic and the sword to bring death to those high lords of the eleven kingdoms who considered themselves above the law. Where courts and trials could not reach the great, we could. And they hated us for it. Us and our companion shadows, the elemental creatures of darkness known as Shades who conceal and complete us. We knew of the hate of the mighty, and their fear, and we welcomed it. It was a sign that no one was beyond the reach of justice.
What we didn''t know was that the gods themselves were also frightened, for Namara had made the swords that she gave us into a tool that might slay even a lord of Heaven, and that was the true reason for our fall. I know it now, but what to do with the knowledge? That is the question that had me calling out to the dead. That is the question that had brought me an answer. Perhaps. The bar was the Gryphon''s Head, a place I knew as well as I knew the dark parts of my own soul. It was the place where I had plumbed the depths of despair back in the days when I was trying to drink myself into the grave so many of my fellows had already entered. But this time it was different. None of the regulars were in evidence, not even Jerik, the bartender, who was one of my few true friends in the world.
No, tonight, the Gryphon was peopled with the dead. When I walked through the door, the first person I saw was Alinthide Poisonhand, whom I had loved from afar as a boy and who had died trying to kill a king. She nodded to me, but she said no words, merely pointing to an empty table by the back wall. It was my usual place, and the only table without a full complement of the fallen. Most of the closer dead were Blades and priests--those I had known at the temple in my youth. But not all. At another table sat two kings that had fallen to my swords, forever changing my name from Aral Brandarzon to Aral Kingslayer, as the world knew me now. They glared hate at me, Ashvik and his bastard half brother Thauvik.
Nor were they alone. Nea Sjensdor sat with them, Lady Signet, and preceptor of the Hand of Heaven--the order of sorcerers that had destroyed my temple--and another I had slain. There were more, for somehow the taproom of the Gryphon''s Head now looked both exactly as it ought and seemed to stretch out to encompass hundreds of tables. Here were all my dead. Those I had loved. Those I had hated. And those who had meant nothing to me at all. These last were perhaps hardest to face, for I had killed many over the years, most for no more reason than that they had stood in the way when there were those I needed to slay.
I will not attempt to excuse their deaths. Not here, and not when I, in my turn, stand before the lords of judgment. I did what I felt was right at the time, and I will pay the price when it comes due. Slowly, I walked through the ranks of the silent dead, approaching the place that waited for me. There were only two chairs there, though five could have sat at the table comfortably. That, too, was in keeping with my past experiences, for once I had called the Gryphon''s Head my office and used that table to conduct my business. One chair was mine, and one belonged to my client, whoever that might be at the time. I paused then, looking for my shadow and, with it, my familiar Triss.
For Blades are sorcerers as well, dependent on our darkling companions to focus the gift of our magic. My Shade assumes the shape of a dragon made of shadow when he is not concealing himself within my own. But, there and then, though I could feel that he lived through the link that bound our souls, I had no shadow. I missed him dearly, for I love Triss more than I love myself, and I rely on his advice in all things. Still, I drew back my chair and sat down, as I knew that I must. When I looked up, I was no longer alone. The greatest of my dead had come. Namara.
My goddess. "Hello, Aral, I''ve been waiting a long time to speak with you." When I had met with her in life, she usually wore the shape of a great stone statue with six arms and skin like granite. Today, she had assumed the size and shape of a beautiful woman in a scarlet dress. The only obvious evidence of her divinity were her six arms, but even without that, I would have known her, for her image was forever burned into my soul. "You''re dead," I said, wishing once more for Triss to come and stand beside me. Namara inclined her head ever so slightly. "I am.
" "The dead do not return to us." The words came out flat and hard. "No, we do not." "Then, how ." "I was a goddess, Aral. I am allowed certain dispensations." "I don''t understand." "You carry me in your heart.
As long as it beats, there will a tiny part of me remain. When I knew that I was to die, I took steps to see that what I cared most about might live on beyond my own ending." "I . what do you want of me?" "Only what I have ever wanted of you. Justice." "Is that why you''re here? To tell me you want me to . what? Do justice?" "Yes." I was suddenly achingly furious.
"Why now? Why not when I was in the fucking depths of despair and half dead from drinking myself unconscious every night?" "Because I am dead. I''m not really here, Aral. I exist now only in your heart, and the hearts of those who once served me and may yet again. I do not speak from beyond the grave, I speak from within it. I could not come to you before you yourself summoned me up. Only in following the path I would have wished of you have you become again the man who can hear this message." "And your message is to seek justice?" "That, and nothing more." "How?" I yelled.
"I don''t know what I''m doing. I want justice, but I don''t even know where to look to find it." "Here," she said, and reached a hand across, placing her palm on my chest above the heart. Her touch burned. "That''s no answer." "It''s all the answer there is or ever was. You have found the path. Follow it.
" "But I can''t see it." "Neither could I. To seek to follow justice is to walk in shadows. Some days they part and you can see clearly where to put your feet. Some days they thicken and you may stray far from the road, at great cost in blood and souls. Know that now, for a little while, your feet are exactly where they need to be. That is all there is." She began to fade.
"Wait, will I see you again?" "I have delivered my message." "That''s no answer." "It''s the only one I have. Now let me leave you with a gift." One of her hands turned over and a cascade of efik beans spilled out of it. I looked at them with a sort of horror, expecting the drug craving again, the hunger that had been slowly devouring my soul. But I felt nothing. "I .
I don''t want them." "When you passed through smoke you left the flesh behind for a time and, with it, the needs of the flesh. That broke the physical desire in a way that only the power of a god could. What the Smoldering Flame began, I can finish here in this place and time, sealing the wound that was opened by the Kitsune." She seemed little more than a ghost now. "Will it last?" I asked, needing desperately to believe that it would. She shrugged. "My power is broken.
So that is up to you. It always was." "And the alcohol ." I couldn''t even ask the question. "Was never sacred to me. That demon you must fight alone." Alone. I sat bolt upright in my bed at the Roc and Diamond gasping for air.
What just happened? Triss spoke into my mind, his mental voice sounding muzzy and confused as though he were rising up from a deep and enchanted sleep. I had the strangest dream. "Aral?" It was Siri, waking beside me. "What ." Her voice trailed off as she touched the skin over my heart. I looked down. Clearly visible in the late-morning light was a mark on my chest--like an old burn scar. It took the shape of a six-fingered hand.
I speak to the dead. My fallen brethren. The people I have killed unjustly whose forgiveness I beg in the small hours of the night. Most of all, my goddess. Usually, they don''t answer me back. I think it''s better that way. * * * The Roc and Diamond was a typical example of architecture in the city of Wall. The ground floor was sixteen feet wide and sixty feet long, its shape determined by the nature of the gigantic magical ward that separated the lands of the Sylvani Empire from the human kingdoms to the north.
The ward took the shape of a wall eight feet tall and eight feet wide, enclosing and confining the magics of the First within a perfect half circle.