To fruitful coasts the Dwarrow steer

  And crush the churches they find there

  When guards are raised it is too late

  The Warlord lands and seals their fate

  Heroes hurl toward Mountainhomes

  Righteous arrows from sov’reign throne

  Against the tempest honor stands

  Merciless is the Warlord’s hand

  Bodixa falls with fearful cries

  A thousand souls ascend the skies

  Nor’western lands, be wary and bold

  Against his siege you soon must hold

  —Excerpt from Ekatos’s Heraldric Record

  ~

  Each week brought new invitations to Esor’s mailbox in the library. Fear propelled Esor to take every opportunity to meet àlvilere and entertain their wives. He felt more jester than tutor. A sideshow attraction. Someone whose amusing stories and eccentric ways made him fashionable company.

  Yet he was neither jester nor tutor: under Corvin’s order, he had become a spy. Hence Esor acted the fool while observing fabric, mannerisms, and anything else that might suggest Houses with access to the Mountainhomes.

  He found nothing, but he ate many small cakes and laughed at many terrible jokes.

  When teatime with Kit?anve came again, there were no reasons to laugh.

  “Have you been dreaming yet?” she asked.

  Esor thought of the lash and said, “No. Not at all.” She would not refill his tea jar. She didn’t want him to drink another drop. “My lady, I am tormented without it,” said Esor. “I suffer in sleeplessness.”

  “Then you will suffer.” Kit?anve sent him away. “We may talk again once your visions return.”

  ~

  THAT NIGHT, ESOR DREAMED again of bloody battles in the deepest places. That feral Dwarrow called Mishun Brinkdelver was immersed in senseless battle, buffeted by waves in the lightless depths of violence. There was little besides yelling and crushing. Commanders conflicted with Republic archers. Ibexes collapsed from poisoned axe blows. Mishun was sucked under tides of armor.

  Another Dwarrow pulled him out of the crowd, but then he was pushed again.

  Mishun collided with shields held by a clutch of skeletons. Their ashen faces shed dust on every blow. Teeth clattered and ribs rattled and every single one had a crescent-and-teardrop stamped upon its head.

  The crescent and teardrop. Hatches. Crosses...

  Mishun seized upon the axe strapped to a dead ibex. His arm was mighty and his swing was powerful. The steel blade shattered a tower shield. The next slice shattered bone. Inhaled shards shredded lungs to make paths for blood and Chaos.

  The Brinkdelver only stopped when the blazing light of Ashenna’s eye opened on the other side of the gates.

  The battling figures were blinded as one.

  Armor burned with the reflection of fire.

  It was a waterfall of golden flame so brilliant that living eyes could perceive nothing but white. It turned the wraiths to wisps, then nothing. The skeletons were paralyzed, trapped in contortions as they screamed, shivering the mountain above them. Dwarrow and àlvare alike tumbled to their knees, clutching their faces.

  Only Mishun stood, swinging around with the axe to face the door. It lit his bruised, furious features as the muscles slackened, realization settling over him.

  Ahnor.

  It was always Ahnor, standing at the center of everything. The strength in his arm. The reason to keep fighting. The light holding darkness at bay.

  ~

  "YOU CAN’T KEEP DOING that,” Mishun whispered to Ahnor after the battle ended. His fingers moved over her wounds.

  She had bled liquid fire yet survived. Mishun stitched flesh that Esor could feel but not see through the fog of the dream. The misshapen Heartbox rested over Ahnor’s breast, only a hand’s length from the place where she had plunged the knife.

  “My goldblood is the best way to protect the Warrens,” she said. “Nobody knows I am the source of this weapon. Even if they realize I’m different—that I’m not another Dwarrow—the people are kind, and I think—”

  “You’re not a weapon,” Mishun said. “You’re Ahnor. You’re someone.”

  You can’t keep hurting yourself.

  Two hands joined together, fingers entwined. The Heartbox between them. Mountains above, darkness below, and an infinite pit from which neither could escape.

  Don’t hurt yourself.

  ~

  THE SLAM OF A DOOR awakened Esor in his classroom. He jolted upright, tossing his head back so that his hair stuck straight up, glued into place by sweat.

  Corvin sauntered in. The Lord Mayor carried a goblet of wine, wore a long dressing gown, and bore no visible weapons.

  Esor smoothed his hair down and leaped to his feet.

  Corvin perused the table’s surface. “If Ilare is using such challenging ingredients, then I feel confident the College of Ralen is in her future,” said the Lord Mayor. “You’re brewing these things before her, so your skill is equal or finer. A shame they don’t take Dokàlvare.”

  “They’ve admitted a few exceptional Low students,” said Esor. Firelight gleamed on his sweaty collarbone. “I dream not of rising to such historic heights. There are other academic opportunities in Ralen where I may apply my skills. I’ve broad interests.”

  The images of Dwarrow in battle slipped through his mind. The broadest interests possible, Esor thought. But while the smell of blood lingered in his nostrils, the adrenaline of fighting flitted away like Kit?anve’s songbirds.

  “I would love to work as a research assistant for the Affinities Department.” Esor hurried to add, “Once my contract here is completed, of course. Until then, my focus remains entirely upon the tasks you’ve set. Entirely.”

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  A strange expression crossed Corvin’s features. “You’ve thought a lot about your future, it seems. Pining for romance. A future in academics.”

  Esor blushed from hairline to chest. “I’ve lived only twenty vetone. I’ve much time ahead, I hope. But, as previously stated, I’m not thinking about my future beyond this contract!”

  “Are you always so nervous? It’s exhausting.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’ll try to do better. Very sorry. It’s just—you know, very intimidating—you’re very intimidating—and I want to do well, and—”

  The Lord Mayor laughed at him to interrupt the flow of thought. “This was my alchemy table, once,” said Corvin, strolling along its outer edge. “It went with me to the College of Ralen, where I entertained dreams of becoming an alchemist. I wished to find the alkahest.”

  “What would you have done, should you create a substance that could destroy anything?” Esor asked.

  “Use it,” Corvin said, “very carefully, very selectively. The alkahest is a dramatic concept with myriad applications—medical or defensive. But revolutionizing alchemy was not the path I took.”

  “You were called to the military to fight Dwarrow,” said Esor. “You fought for Ildòrian.” At Corvin’s questioning look, Esor blushed and stuttered again. “You told me to leverage my knowledge as son of steward, so I have observed everyone. That is what I gather from observing you. The way you move speaks of military—and with your history, your position in your family—it stands to reason you would have served.”

  “I would still be serving if my brother Navar? were Lord Mayor,” said Corvin. “He was meant to maintain Kovenor interests as the right arm of Magistrate Amalen. He never should have lost his life at the bottom of the ocean in the churn of Chaos.”

  “Were you close to him?”

  “We were near in age and competed for everything.” Corvin drifted away, fingertips brushing over his own chin thoughtfully. “It was never a real competition. Navar? was too responsible to grow into anything but the next Magistrate. I could not win the titles. I won the attention by making trouble and failing frequently. We resented each other but...we were stronger for it. I was stronger with him here.”

  “You miss him,” said Esor.

  “I miss the buck I was around him,” said Corvin. “At times I yearn for Navar?’s laughter again, but I yearn most strongly for the life I cannot live without him.”

  Esor said, “I’m sorry,” and he meant it, truly, forcefully, even though he could not rattle the glass with the song of his emotions. “If you’d like, you’re welcome to resume studying alchemy with me—and your sister! We conduct lessons every Light, excepting the week-ends, sabbats, and esbats.”

  The Lord Mayor lifted an eyebrow, which added an appealing hint of asymmetry to otherwise flawless features. “Would you like it if I attended your lessons?”

  “Ilare would,” said Esor. “She projects an air of mischievous confidence but falters in matters regarding her brothers, revealing vulnerabilities. She asked me to pass along a message, in fact—though I daresay she would prefer to ask you herself—and the sum of it is that she wants to go to church. ?elasdur’s church. She requests that you renovate that.” He finally let out a breath and breathed in again, letting some color return to his face. “She misses you. It is more about you than the church, I should think. Ah, hexes!” His gesturing hand struck a vial and shattered it upon the table.

  “Careful. Don’t touch it.” Corvin tried to catch Esor’s hand before he could reach for the shards, but he had already been cut.

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Esor said. “I’ve fingers clumsier than a goat’s hoof. This is nothing.”

  Corvin squeezed Esor’s hand firmly. The skin yellowed and a dark-hued gem of blood budded from the cut. A low groan emerged from the Dokàlvar’s throat. The Lord Mayor’s breath caught. The rich violet undertones of àlvar blood against flawless satin skin transfixed them both.

  You can’t keep doing that, whispered some voice from Esor’s dreams. Hurting yourself.

  Cheeks reddening, Esor jerked free.

  He stuttered through repeating his request. “The church Ilare wants—”

  “What’s the point when she will so soon go to the College of Ralen?” The Lord Mayor plucked a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it over Esor’s bleeding hand. “As you said, it is a cry for attention. I may find other ways to provide that attention.”

  “Do you think she is the only one who yearns for worship in this tower? Even a non-believer should recognize unfilled needs in his community.”

  Corvin’s hand tightened around Esor’s again, pressing linen against wound. It stung warmly. “I have approved vainer projects to please the loves in my life. I’ll speak to Malor about the church for Ilare...and for the others here who yearn.”

  ~

  A FEW LIGHTS LATER, Esor arrived at his classroom to find no keroterase. Ilare sat on the floor beside Lord Mayor Corvin’s knee, beaming up at him the way spring blooms turned toward sun. He smiled at his sister with equal love, hand cupping her cheek. She rested upon the spill of his robes, hers gauzy white against his velvety black, and they were such pristine division between Light and Night that Esor struggled to breathe.

  Ilare shined happier still when Esor entered. She rose gracefully to her feet. “Good Light, Master Esor! We are going to inspect renovations on the church today. You’ll be coming, won’t you?”

  “Of course, my lady,” said Esor, drably dressed in jacket and boots, hair mussed, hands stained with ink. “Is Samej outside?”

  “I need no keroterase in my brother’s presence.” Ilare gathered her capelet around her shoulders. “What a relief to be freed from circling vultures!”

  The route to the church was not so ominous during Light. The room stood at the heart of ?elasdur, atop what had once been the mass of its trunk, and the doors were flung wide to permit Ilare’s entrance. Its roof stood open to the tumultuous sky. A framework hinted at windows that must have once arched overhead. Now the wooden beams served only to dangle ivy over moss growing on broken bricks.

  “Patrician Malor has approved my renovation proposal. I’m personally selecting artisans to perform the work,” said Corvin. “Only for you, ninut.” ?A church. Really. You know how I feel about these things.?

  “‘Don’t say the All-Mother’s true name in front of me,’” growled Ilare playfully, mocking her brother’s tone. “‘The Church is terrible. Live your life free of an unfeeling god’s decree!’” She hugged him again and hummed, ?Thank you, Corvin. I love this so much.?

  Unburdened by keroterase, Ilare floated through the disarray buoyed on imagination of what could be, what it would become. Holes in the floor had been covered with planks to create a safe path. Spiderwebs tangled between bushes, and Ilare was as light as their silk, shimmering while going from pew to altar to the remnants of windows beyond. Workers had pried loose any art depicting Lorkullen. The only remainders were the crescents and teardrops on the trim that Ilare traced her fingers along.

  Her footfalls and playful melody grew distant as she explored deeper into the room.

  “Thank you for this, my liege,” Esor said. “And for this.” He returned Corvin’s washed handkerchief, bleached and folded.

  “Are you grateful enough to offer help in kind?” asked Corvin. “Have you found my sympathizers?”

  “I hate to disappoint by reporting nothing.”

  “You report nothing regardless,” said Corvin. “Have you found nothing aberrant in this accursed palace, no matter how minor?”

  Esor would not meet his eyes. “I won’t report until I’m certain.”

  “Come, now. I do not ask you to be an Inquisitor. I ask you to highlight suspect behavior for others to investigate.”

  “Then I will highlight suspect behavior when I’m certain it is suspect.”

  Corvin’s eyes sparked with dangerous alertness. “Bold.”

  “No bolder than the way you expect me to believe your gestures of geniality are authentic,” Esor dared to say.

  “Am I feigning my friendliness?” The Lord Mayor was suddenly still again, neither menacing nor friendly, but empty of emotion.

  “You pretend to let down your guard before me so that I will do the same. You trust nobody, no matter what you say, and so our shared affability can be nothing but a ruse.”

  How breathless the air between them, how difficult the silent passage of moments.

  “What could I obtain through coercion that I cannot through command?” asked Corvin.

  “I have yet to form any theories on the matter,” said Esor.

  Mirth sparked in the Lord Mayor’s amethyst eyes. “I’m sure your brilliant mind will come up with something soon enough.” He touched Esor’s cheek, briefly, with an ungloved hand, Corvin’s palm curving along the hairless line of Esor’s jaw. “I know I’ve pleased Ilare by renovating the church. The question is whether I have pleased you.”

  “Me? What should that matter?”

  “It shouldn’t,” said Corvin, “yet it does. It matters terribly.”

  Ilare summoned their attention to the front of the Church, where workers had stripped away overgrown walls of dead ivy to expose carvings underneath. “What can you tell me about this relief, tutor?” she asked.

  Esor leaned in close to look. It must have been centuries since the artwork was last exposed. Its cracks were filled with green-brown muck. “Geometric carvings with inorganic lines signal that this was cut in the wīskiren style of ancient àlvar peoples. This church might be old as the tower. Astounding to imagine these may have been cut by hands in such a distant past that none alive recall it.” Esor tentatively rested his fingers upon a relief. “The style is unfamiliar, but the subject matter...”

  The workers pulled aside more ivy, revealing another panel. Esor recognized the figure. He jerked his hand back, adjusted his cravat, swallowed hard.

  “That’s the Lexin, isn’t it?” asked Ilare.

  A figure made of Night oversaw the scene, as dreadful as the design of Lorkullen on the door. The Lexin had jagged teeth and serpentine claws that plunged through open windows and unlocked doors. The village he attacked was flooding from the All-Mother’s tears.

  “I want these panels removed,” Ilare told the workers. “The door must also be replaced. I deserve a modern church with modern sensibilities.” She did not look at the engraving of the Lexin again. It leered at the doorway through which they exited until workmen came to tear everything down.