34

Through Immon's Gate

With his death, Silvergleam's house fell. Whitefire and Judgment were

banished into the same Unbeing to which old Twilight had been

dispatched, and most of their servants slaughtered. Crooked only was kept

alive because the children of Moisture coveted his arts. They tormented him

first, cutting away his manhood so that he would never spread the seed of

Breeze's children, then they made him their slave.

Even the victors did not sing of these deeds, but made false tales to hide

their shame and grief. The truth could not be encompassed.

The true story is called Kingdom of Tears.

— from One Hundred Considerations out of the Qar's Book of Regret

THE MYSTERIOUS DARK-HAIRED GIRL had not appeared to him in days. His hours in the cell were long and empty, he was still angry with Vansen, Gyir had shown no evidence of having come up with the promised plan of escape (nor done much at all except sit in oblique silence), and Barrick was desperate for something to distract him from his own discomfort and dread, so he brooded about her.

He had even begun to wonder if she might have been a herald of his own death-whether, despite all her words about courage and resistance, her presence actually meant he was nearing the end of his life. Perhaps she was some daughter of Kernios, awakened or summoned by the nearness of

the monstrous gntc. Barrick didn't know whether Kernios had a daughter he had never been able to keep up with Father Timoid's endless recitations of the lineages of gods, even if his family claimed relationship to one-but it seemed possible.

Still, if the dark-haired girl was an emissary of the ultimate, he was not as afraid of dying as he had thought he would be. This Death had a kind, clever face. But so young! Younger than he was, certainly. Then again, if she was a goddess, how she appeared meant little-after all, the gods could be¬come whatever they wanted, trees or stars or beasts of the field.

But what was the use of wondering, in any case? Day after day of throb¬bing pain in his head and blurred thoughts, night after night of frightening visions-Barrick was not even quite certain of what was real anymore. Why had he been chosen for this particular torment? Not fair. Not fair.

Push against it. He heard her voice again, but only in memory. Escape it. Change it.

What had Gyir told him? You are only a prisoner when you surrender. Even steadfast, stolid Vansen seemed to reproach Barrick for his weakness- everyone else was so cursedly certain about things they didn't have to suffer.

Barrick opened his eyes a little. Vansen was sleeping next to him, the sol¬dier's thin face now softened by a beard which obscured but could not completely hide the hollowness of his cheeks. Though they drained every drop of the swill Jikuyin's guards gave them, they were all slowly wasting away. Barrick had been slender to begin with, but now he could watch each bone sliding and moving beneath his skin, see the deformity of his shat¬tered arm in more detail than he had ever wanted.

For a moment, then, his eyes half shut, he could almost see King Olin's features hovering before him instead of Vansen's.

I hope you're happy, Father.You were so ashamed of what you did to me that you couldn't even speak of it. Soon I'll be dead and you'll never have to see me again.

But was it really all his father's fault? It was the curse, after all, a poison in the Eddon blood they shared, and even his father's blood was not as cor¬rupted as Barrick's. For proof, he need look no farther than the days and nights just passed: when Olin had escaped the castle his own curse had be¬come less-his letters had all but said so. Barrick, though, was in the grip of even worse fevers of madness than he had experienced at home.

He shut his eyes tight but sleep would not come. A quiet shuffling noise made him open them again. The latest shift of prisoners had just come back

from their labors and one of the apish guards was coming right toward then cell, Gyir, who had been propped in a corner of the stony cell with his chin against his chest, slowly looked up. Barrick's heart raced-what could the guard want? Had the time come for the blood sacrifice Gyir had feared?

The creature stopped in front of the grille, cutting off most of the out¬side light. Gyir moved toward the door, but with a swift, easy grace that took a little of the edge off Barrick's fear: he had learned to read the fairy's movements a bit, and what they said now was not danger but only caution.

The beastlike guard stood in silence, its face pressed against the bars. Nothing visible passed between the guard and Gyir, but after a dozen or so heartbeats the shaggy creature shook itself and then turned away, a puzzled, perhaps even frightened expression on its inhuman face.

During the course of the following hours and days, many more guards and more than a few returning prisoners enacted a similar ritual as Barrick watched with fascination. He couldn't help wondering what this had to do with the Storm Lantern's talk of gun-flour, since there was none of the black powder to be seen. Instead, it was like watching the Bronzes cere¬mony at the Southmarch court, when the leading nobles of the March Kingdoms came and laid their weapons at the feet of the king sitting in the Wolf's Chair and each of their names was marked on a bronze tablet which was then blessed and then laid into the vault at the great Trigonate temple. But the beasts of Greatdeeps were bringing the fairy nothing that Barrick could see, nor were they taking anything away.

He realized that almost a year had come and gone since King Olin had performed the Bronzes ceremony before leaving on his ill-fated voyage. He wondered if Briony would take the fealty of the Marchwardens this year, and was suddenly filled with a homesickness so powerful it almost made him burst out sobbing. It was followed by a wave of loathing at his own helplessness, his own uselessness.

Look at me! I lie here like a child, doing nothing, waiting for death. And what is my death? A warrior's death? A king's death, or even a prince's death? No, it takes the form of a girl, a doe-eyed girl full of sympathy, and I wait for her like some smit¬ten bard, some… poet. Then, the thought burning like fire in his guts: And even she thinks that I have given up-that I am a coward.

Barrick dragged himself upright, ignoring the sharp pain in his arm, which was always worst the first time he bent it after having been asleep. He made his way over to Gyir and sat down beside him. The fairy, whose eyes

had been closed as if in sleep since the last visitor or tributary had shuffled away, opened them to fix Barrick with the banked fire of his gaze.

You do not need to sit near me to talk. I could speak to you from the House of the People, almost. You grow stronger every day.

Why are those guards and other creatures coming to you? he asked.

I am schooling them in what I need, Gyir told him. I do not want to say more, since we will risk all on this throw.

Barrick sat quiet for a while, thinking. Why is all of this happening now? he finally asked. Not what I was just asking about, but… everything.

Narrow your question, please.

Everything that hasn't happened before, or at least not for hundreds of years- the Shadowline moving, your people attacking Southmarch and warring against my people. And this demigod Jack Chain, or whatever he is, digging up the palace of Kernios.You can't pretend those sorts of things happen all the time.

Gyir let out the gust of bitter amusement that Barrick had come to rec¬ognize as a laugh. Your people and my people at each other's throats is not so un¬usual.You slaughtered us for years. And, to be fair, we have attacked you twice since then.