Head among those keepers was the Chief Eunuch, Yorbas Zurgah. Yorbas was an old, soft, perfectly hairless man, even shaving his head and plucking his eyebrows and eyelashes. He sat huddled in an ermine cloak to ward off the morning chill at the servants’ gate. Before him was a desk with a parchment unrolled on it. His blue eyes studied Dorian dubiously.

“You’re short,” Chamberlain Zurgah said. He himself had a typical eunuch’s height.

And you’re fat. “Yes, my lord.”

“‘Sir’ will suffice.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chamberlain Zurgah stroked his hairless chin with fingers like sausages encased in jeweled rings. “You have an odd look about you.”

In his youth, Dorian had rarely seen Yorbas Zurgah. He didn’t think the man would remember him, but anything that caused greater scrutiny was dangerous.

“Do you know the penalty for a man who attempts entry to the harem?” Zurgah asked.

Dorian shook his head and looked steadfastly at the ground. He clenched his jaw and, without raising his eyes, tucked his hair back behind his ears.

It was what he considered a stroke of genius; he’d given himself silver streaks in his hair, paired with slightly pointed ears and several webbed toes. They were features that only one tribe in Khalidor possessed. The Feyuri claimed to be descended from the Fey folk and were equally despised for that and their pacifism. Dorian appeared to be half Feyuri, which was exotic enough and from a group despised enough that he hoped no one would stop to think how his Khalidoran half made him look a lot like Garoth Ursuul. It also explained why he was short. “It’s the …other reason they call me Halfman, sir.”

Yorbas Zurgah clicked his tongue. “I see. Then here are the terms of your indenture: you will serve whatever hours are asked of you. Your first tasks will include emptying and cleaning the concubines’ chamber pots. Your food will be cold and never as much as you’d like. You are forbidden to speak with the concubines and if you have trouble with this, your tongue will be torn out. You understand?”

Dorian nodded.

“Then only one thing remains, Halfman.”

“Sir?”

“We have to make sure you’re a halfman after all. Remove your trousers.”

7

Lantano Garuwashi sat in Kylar’s path, his sword naked across his lap. Mountainous Feir Cousat stood beside him, meat-slab arms folded. They blocked a narrow game trail that led along the southern edge of the Hunter’s Wood. Feir muttered a warning as Kylar approached.

Garuwashi’s sword was unmistakable. The hilt was long enough for one or two hands; pure mistarille inscribed with gold runes in Old Ceuran. The slightly curving blade was inscribed with a dragon’s head, facing the tip of the blade. As Kylar came closer, the dragon breathed fire. The flames traveled within the blade, and before them, Ceur’caelestos turned clear as glass. The flames rolled out farther as Kylar approached. Kylar brought the ka’kari to his eyes and saw Ceur’caelestos in the hues of magic.

That was when he knew the sword was the product of another age. The magics themselves had been crafted to be beautiful—and Kylar couldn’t understand the least of them. He sensed playfulness, grandeur, hauteur, and love. Kylar realized he had a tendency for getting into things that were way over his head. Not least of which was trying to steal such a sword from Lantano Garuwashi.

“Drop the shadows, Kylar, or I’ll help you drop them,” Feir said.

Fifteen paces away from them, Kylar dropped the shadows. “So, mages can see me when I’m invisible. Dammit.” He’d suspected as much.

Feir smiled joylessly. “Only one in ten men. Nine in ten women. I can only see you within thirty paces. Dorian could’ve seen you half a mile away, through trees. But I forget myself. Baronet Kylar Stern of Cenaria, also known as the Night Angel, war son of wetboy Durzo Blint, this is War Leader Lantano Garuwashi the Undefeated, the Chosen of Ceur’caelestos, of the Aenu Heights Lantanos.”

Kylar clasped his left hand to his stump and bowed in the Ceuran style. “War Leader, the many tales of your deeds attest to your prowess.”

Garuwashi rose and slid Ceur’caelestos into its sheath. He bowed and his mouth twitched. “Night Angel, likewise the few tales of yours.”

The horizon was brightening, but it was still dark in the forest. It smelled like rain and coming winter. Kylar wondered if they would be the last smells he would experience. He smiled on the rising tide of despair. “We seem to have a problem,” Kylar said. Several, actually.

“What’s that?” Garuwashi asked.

I can’t fight you invisible without killing Feir first, and even if I did, neither of you merits death. “You have a sword I need,” Kylar said instead.

“Are you out of your—” Feir asked, but cut off at Garuwashi’s raised hand.

“Forgive me, Night Angel,” Garuwashi said, “but you’re not left-handed, and you move like the loss of your sword hand was recent. If you so desire death that you would challenge me, I will not deny you. But why would you?”

Because I made a deal with the Wolf. Mere hours afterward, Kylar had found Durzo’s note that ended, “MAKE NO DEALS WITH THE WOLF.” Maybe this was why. I can’t win.

~Not unless I give you a hand,~ the ka’kari said in Kylar’s mind. The black metal ball that lived within Kylar spoke rarely, and it wasn’t always helpful when it did. You’re hilarious, Kylar thought back at it.

Garuwashi’s eyes flicked down to Kylar’s wrist. Feir was agog.

Kylar glanced down and saw jet black metal writhing from his stump. It resolved itself slowly into a hand. He tried to make a fist, and it did. Are you joking?

~I’m not that cruel. By the way, Jorsin Alkestes didn’t like the idea of his enemies coming back to life. If that sword kills you, you’re really dead.~

Funny, the Wolf failed to mention that. Kylar wiggled the black fingers. He even had some sensation in them. At the same time, the hand was too light. It was hollow, the skin thinner than parchment. Hey, while you’re doing miracles …

~No.~

You didn’t even listen!

~Go ahead.~ It felt like the ka’kari was rolling its eyes. How did it do that? It didn’t even have eyes.

Can you fix its weight?

~No.~

Why not?

The ka’kari sighed. ~I stay one size. I’m already covering all your skin and making a hand for you. Invisibility, blue flames, and an extra hand not enough for you?~

So making a dagger of you and throwing it would be a bad idea?

The ka’kari went silent in a huff, and Kylar grinned. Then he realized he was grinning at Lantano Garuwashi, who had sixty-three deaths tied to his hair, and eighty-two in his eyes.

“You need a minute?” Garuwashi asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Uh, I’m ready now,” Kylar said. He drew his sword.

“Kylar,” Feir said. “What are you going to do with the sword?”

“I’m going to put it somewhere safe.”

Feir’s eyes widened. “You’re taking it into the Wood?”

“I was thinking I’d throw it in.”

“Good idea,” Feir said.

“Perhaps a nice idea. But not a good one,” Garuwashi said. He closed the distance between them in an instant. The swords rang together in the staccato melody that would climax in death. Kylar decided to feign a tendency to overextend on his ripostes. With a swordsman as talented as Lantano Garuwashi, he should only have to show the weakness twice and spring the trap the third time.

Except that the first time he overextended, Garuwashi’s sword was into the gap, raking Kylar’s ribs. He could have killed Kylar with that thrust, but he held back, wary of a trap.

Kylar staggered back, and Garuwashi let him regroup, his eyes showing disappointment. They’d barely crossed swords for five seconds. The man was too fast. Ridiculously fast. Kylar brought the ka’kari to his eyes and was even more stunned.