Even now, despite the horrors he’d witnessed, he still possessed a touch of innocence. His lower lip trembled and his green eyes glistened. “They said you were going to die.”

I slowly shook my head. “They misunderstood.”

“They said the Gloon saw it. They can see the future.”

“Not always, Dunos.” I removed the twin swords from my robe’s sash and sat at the base of the wall. Dunos sat at my feet, his withered arm looking close to normal sheathed in ring mail. He’d been given a red robe once worn by Pasuram Derael, resplendent with the family’s wounded-bear crest embroidered in yellow. In spirit, he was one of them.

I made sure my voice was warm. “Do you remember when we were in Moriande and went to the healing Kaerinus performed?”

“We were there with that lady, Nirati.”

“Yes, we were. You saw that big scar on my chest, remember?”

He nodded. “It looked like someone tried to cut you in half.”

“They did a better job of it than the kwajiin. I went to the healing in hopes that it would be healed. It wasn’t.” I tapped a finger against my temple. “There was something else I needed healed and, over time, it has been. The scar…well, I remember little about it. It’s much like you and your arm.”

“I was out playing and found a glowing stone in a riverbank. I grabbed it and don’t remember anything until my father fished me out of the mill stream.” Dunos lifted his left arm and let it drop. “When I woke up, my arm was like this.”

“I remember you telling me. You were a mile or more downstream, but you survived. I survived, too, and woke up in my master’s home. They took care of me. They nursed me back to health. My master trained me to be a great swordsman. He passed on all the lessons he’d learned from his swordmaster, Virisken Soshir.”

I handed him one of the two swords I carried. “Take a good look. The cords wrapping the hilt are orange and black in a tiger-stripe pattern. The man who carried them came from Moryth.”

He peered closely at the cords. “Yes, I see the little bronze tiger charm under there.”

“That’s Chado, the tiger of heaven. Look at the handguard. You see the dragon at the top of the disk? That means the swords were manufactured before the fall of civilization. They also mean the swords belonged to a member of the Emperor’s Bodyguards.”

Dunos nodded. “Virisken Soshir.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

He looked up. “Why did Count Derael give these swords to you?”

“He didn’t give them to me, Dunos.” I met his wondering stare openly. “He returned them to me.”

Dunos’ brows arrowed together.

“The thing Kaerinus healed was not the scar, but the memories I’d lost when I was so badly hurt. I’m not Moraven Tolo, not really. I’m Virisken Soshir.”

The boy blinked, not comprehending.

I couldn’t blame him. I’d found that realization completely alien, and yet I’d also known it was true. Somehow, over five hundred years had passed between the time I rode with Empress Cyrsa to Ixyll and found myself at Serrian Jatan. My former apprentice became my master, never revealing to me who I really was. In retrospect it was easy to see he’d known all along but had never seen fit to tell me.

Dunos pushed through his confusion and focused again. “Didn’t the Gloon say you were going to die?”

“No. He said because I now know who I truly am, I’m free to die. But I’ve been close a number of times, and I really have no taste for it.”

“Me, neither.”

I reached out and tousled his brown hair. “That’s good. I don’t want you dying. You have a long life ahead of you.”

He shrugged. “I’m pretty good at avoiding the vhangxi. They’ve hit me a couple times, but it hasn’t hurt.”

“Excellent.”

“So, you were a warrior a long time ago?”

“I was the last Emperor’s bodyguard. I was one of his sons-not a prince like Nelesquin, but I was trusted nonetheless. Then the Turasynd came.”

“That was a long time ago. You’re alive because you’re a Mystic, right?”

That was the obvious answer. I was alive, in part, due to being a Mystic. But Phoyn Jatan, who had been younger than me, was now far older. It should have been impossible that I had somehow skipped several hundred years of aging, but I’d met Ryn Anturasi. Count Derael said Ryn had given my swords to his ancestor, and yet he was hale and hearty when I met him. Moreover, he had some odd conveyance that had transported me from the heart of Ixyll to Erumvirine in the blink of an eye. Given evidence that he could instantly travel vast distances and perhaps even through time, I had to assume that he found me and brought me forward to be healed and retrained as Moraven Tolo.

“I think you’re right, Dunos.” I frowned. “You’ve seen the scar, though. Someone wanted me dead, and I don’t know why.”

The boy shrugged with the confident carelessness of a child. “It had to have been Prince Nelesquin. He was your enemy.”

“Life is never as clear-cut as bards’ tales.” I wanted to elaborate, but a thought occurred to me. The Time of Black Ice and the war against the Turasynd had created two key figures: the Empress Cyrsa and Prince Nelesquin. She waited, sleeping, to save the former Empire. He was evil incarnate and the source of all the hardships that had befallen the world. His vanyesh were demonized. And various other heroes, like Amenis Dukao, had their cycle of stories, which never let common citizens forget the great sacrifices made to stop the Turasynd.

But Virisken Soshir remained virtually unknown. I’d learned a great deal about him, but only from Phoyn. The stories about Cyrsa seldom included anyone even close to me, and even when they did, my name was mangled beyond recognition. Granted, some of the stories Phoyn told me were unpleasant, I had clearly not been an easy taskmaster. But I’m sure the people I’d led from Kelewan would agree with that assessment.

Ranai Ameryne would. In our escape from Kelewan, I’d used a crowd of hopeless souls to distract the enemy so we could break through their siege lines. Though memories of my life as Virisken were distant, disorganized, and fragmented, at the time I felt no difficulty with what I had done. Virisken, an Imperial bastard, had no qualms about using his inferiors. I had been ambitious-easily the equal of my half brother-so a conflict between us was inevitable.

Thinking on it now, however, I did feel remorse. I’d told Ranai that the people were destined to die anyway, and that some of them might escape. I didn’t believe it, but I also did nothing to help them. If I had turned my force and attacked, more of them might have gotten away. We surely could have pulled some out with us.

But would one or two, or even a dozen, have made any difference? Virisken would have said no because they were homeless peasants being driven before the invaders. People like them always fell to advancing warriors, just as mice fell prey to hawks. It was the way of the world.

But that was the attitude of a bastard child who believed himself better than his legitimate kin. He should have been in line for the throne. He would rule more efficiently and better than they had. However, the chances of his attaining that throne were nonexistent.

Unless there was a revolt and a new dynasty replaced the old.

I shivered, because the person I had once been felt no qualms about that idea either. In fact, he found it attractive.

But I was no longer that person. That was the reason Phoyn had trained me as he had. It was not to hone my skill with a sword, but to remake me as a man. The trauma of my wounding had cost me my memory, and Phoyn made me over into the man he had perceived me to be. He saved me in more ways than one.

I blinked. “Forgive me, Dunos, I was lost in thought.”

“My grandfather used to…” The boy’s voice trailed off. He pursed his lips and turned his face from me.

I reached out and turned it back as a big tear carved a track through dirt. The boy sniffed then smeared the tear across his cheek. “I’m sorry, Master.”