“If you make someone invulnerable, Borosan, then he will be as dangerous with a simple knife as he might be with a gyanrigot sword.”

“But he will likely do little harm and the armor will work only until the thaumston is exhausted. Facing someone such as you, he would do no harm. Your attacks would wear the thaumston down and you would kill him eventually.”

“What if someone else supplies him a gyanrigot sword?”

That question contorted Borosan’s face. “I’d not thought of that.”

Ciras nodded. “It should be considered.” Then he turned away from the inventor as the chubby man went digging for his journal. Ciras took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began his exercises.

He drew the sword and dropped into the third Dragon form. Closing his eyes, he imagined a foe in fourth Wolf across from him. Ciras stamped a foot and the man came in, slashing low. The swordsman easily leaped above that strike and was ready to land in sixth Dragon. Instead, his right foot flicked out and caught his enemy in the face, snapping his head around.

Ciras landed in a crouch and spun, aware of another foe coming in at his back. This enemy was a Turasynd of the Tiger clan. Strips of orange fur covered his arms and chest. The Turasynd’s heavy saber whistled down in a cut that would bisect him, but his own sword came up and around in a double-handed circular parry.

Ciras would have slashed back across the Turasynd’s body, but for awareness of another attack at his back. He stabbed back over his right shoulder and could feel the blade punching through breastbone and heart. He looked up and saw his imaginary Turasynd foe looming over him, transfixed by both the blade and surprise. The enemy had raised his sword over his head with two hands and it still descended, but Ciras caught his wrists and pulled, flipping the man forward and into the other Tiger.

Ciras came up and whirled, slashing blindly at waist height. A third Tiger folded over the blade’s edge. Ciras slid his blade free and continued the spin. He dropped his blade’s tip, then slashed up, catching the first Tiger beneath the chin as he threw off his dead comrade. Both of them fell back into a tangle of limbs, allowing Ciras to leap over them and turn to face other enemies.

The supply of Turasynd seemed endless. Endless and eager. They rushed forward, two coming for each one fallen. Ciras retreated, then lunged, slashed, then parried and riposted. He beat blades down, then cut above them, or ducked a blow and stabbed deep through an enemy’s vitals. His blade licked out, opening armpits and groins, throats and bellies. He had no time to employ the fine cuts that would all but sever a head or cleave wrist from arm.

Scenes blurred as foes came faster and faster. Some he saw as whole and normal, others appeared far larger than they ever could have been. Some even appeared in degrees of decay, as if they had clawed their way from a grave to have a second chance at the man who had killed them. Regardless of how they looked or moved, Ciras fought each back, ending their lives again and again.

Then he spun to the right, coming about in the same cut he’d used to take Dragright’s leg off. His blade bit deep into his enemy’s left side. It carved through his robe and overshirt, the blade’s forte all but reaching his spine. It would have, too, had Ciras not stopped, had he not let go of the blade.

But he did, and sank to his knees. The visions he’d been fighting melted. The sword thudded to the ground before him and sweat stung his eyes. He’d have been happy if the sweat burned them completely from his head, but he knew that even that would not steal the vision of what he’d seen.

Borosan knelt at his side and pressed a waterskin into his hands. “What’s wrong, Ciras?”

The swordsman didn’t answer. He raised the waterskin and directed the stream over his face and head. He shook his head, spraying water, but Borosan did not complain. Ciras drank a bit of water, spat it out, then drank again and swallowed. He waited a moment to see if he would keep it down, then opened his eyes but stared straight ahead, down the length of the blade.

“How long was I exercising?”

“Nine minutes, perhaps eighteen, no more than that.” The inventor shrugged. “I didn’t really pay attention until you started mumbling.”

The swordsman glanced at him. “What did I say?”

“I don’t know, but I didn’t like it. Once you started speaking, strange things began to happen.” Borosan pointed to Ciras’ left.

Ciras followed the line of his finger. The bluesward showed signs of where he’d been. His feet had depressed grasses but, more significantly, his footprints had filled with blood.

“What happened, Ciras?”

“I don’t know. I began my exercises as always, then they became something more. My foes became Turasynd. They came in an endless stream.” The swordsman looked around, baffled. “I think, perhaps, they all died here. The man who owned that blade met them here and killed them. Their ghosts recognized the sword and wanted revenge.”

Borosan’s mismatched eyes widened. “I’ll start packing now.”

Ciras smiled. “That would be wise.”

He remained on his knees and looked at the blade a little longer. He would help Borosan pack, but for the moment was glad for the other man’s preoccupation. He knew the inventor would ask the logical question at some point, and wanted a chance to think about the answer before he ever gave it.

Why did I stop?

The image of the blade slicing through a robe came again. The robe had been white save where blood began to seep into it. The red line spread slowly upward, toward the crest embroidered in black on the overshirt’s back. A tiger hunting.

A crest he had seen before.

And recognition of the crest prompted recognition of the man he was attacking. The size, the shape, the length of his hair. Ciras even knew the man had a scar on his left side that matched the cut perfectly.

He looked down at the blade. “Why would I see you plunging into my master’s back?”

Neither the blade, glinting red and gold in the firelight, nor the sigils slithering through shadow, provided him an answer.

Chapter Twenty-three

7th day, Month of the Dragon, Year of the Rat

9th Year of Imperial Prince Cyron’s Court

163rd Year of the Komyr Dynasty

737th year since the Cataclysm

Thyrenkun, Felarati

Deseirion

Prince Pyrust sat in the very chair Keles Anturasi had used as he listened to the Mother of Shadows report. The fire blazed at his left hand, snapping and popping. He stretched his legs out, forcibly ignoring the heat.

“This report is difficult for me to hear, Delasonsa. From here, I can see the great work Anturasi has accomplished. Returning this much land to cultivation will not solve our food shortage, but it will help. He’s guaranteed Felarati can continue to grow beyond my lifetime. His value to me is considerable.”

The crone bowed her head. “This I understand, Highness. But his conduct with your wife is unacceptable.”

“To whom?”

Her head came up. “To me-for one, and it should be to you. She carries your child.”

Pyrust’s eyes half lidded. “Her child will be born as my heir. She knows this. We all do, and there is nothing she can do to make things otherwise. Even rumors of the child having been fathered by Anturasi will not matter. Besides, you tell me they have not slept together yet.”

The old woman’s grey cloak closed and shrouded her form, making her seem smaller than before. “It is not for your wife’s lack of trying, Highness.”

“Then the fault is hers.”

“But she cannot be slain. Anturasi can. Our people found him in Ixyll, very ill. They did all they could for him, but he succumbed to some illness. We can return his body, or burn him and return his ashes. We could even send Prince Cyron the heads of the fools who did not get him here quickly enough.”