The Clans: Tales of the Fourth World

By Brandon M. Lindsay

The Fourth World is ending. Brother Willfonde, the man destined to save it, is dead. Yet he left behind six clues—one historical text from each clan—in the hope that someone could finish what he started. Or so it is believed.

Led by a novice named Kularro, a group of young geniuses is tasked to find what the Magisters of the Church of the Overarch could not: an answer to the riddle of Willfonde’s six texts. Will they be able to find a way to save their world? Or is Willfonde’s final message one of despair?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon M. Lindsay
• Release date: Dec 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301612277

Brandon M. Lindsay

Brandon M. Lindsay grew up in the Seattle area, and now lives in Tokyo, Japan. He received a degree in philosophy from the University of Washington in Seattle. While he can be frequently seen debating politics and philosophy, his truest love is writing epic fantasy. In the Fourth World series, he has released the novella Spear Mother, the novelette Dark Tree, and a collection of stories called The Clans. Brandon will continue to write stories in the Fourth World, as well as in other worlds. He is also a co-founder of The Fictorian Era, a blog for writers.

Book preview

The Clans:

Tales of the Fourth World

by Brandon M. Lindsay

Copyright © 2012 Brandon M. Lindsay. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Brandon M. Lindsay

http://brandonmlindsay.com

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Table of Contents

Introduction

Tokkarint Clan: Wholeness

Appendix A

Mist Clan: It Beckons

Appendix B

Faceless Clan: The Returner Comes

Appendix C

Canterell Clan: What Is Owed

Appendix D

Wyrric Clan: Curses

Appendix E

Shannod Clan: That Which Binds Us

Appendix F

Sample: The Born Sword

About the Author

Acknowledgements

Bonus: Dark Tree

Introduction

Kularro sat down at an empty desk toward the back of the empty lecture hall. He was the first one there, as he had been in every other class he had taken at the Citadel. It was deathly quiet now, only the infrequent patter of the rain escaping through the hall's balcony doors and the ticking of the wall clock to compete with his breathing. He wondered if anyone else would bother to show up.

Some of his instructors had always thought Kularro was early to every class because he was eager to learn, which was partially true, or that he was trying to ingratiate himself with the magisters, which wasn't true. The fact was he was early to class because he was an avid student of human behavior and wanted to surreptitiously watch the other novices file in. People fascinated him.

Yet today, what very well might be the day every one of them died, his habit seemed at once very important and very futile. Still, habits die hard, and he watched the door out of the corner of his eye, fiddling with a stack of parchments to appear genuinely busy. Little writing space remained of the parchments, the rest having inexplicably rotted away like so many other things. Although it wasn't entirely inexplicable; everyone knew that the Corruption destroyed things, even if they didn't know how. All anyone knew was that Berahmain, the God, decreed it, and it was so.

Kularro only wished Berahmain had spared his robes. The fabric was worn and frayed, though he had only been issued this novice robe a couple months ago. He looked like a beggar. Idly, he wondered if Maye's robes had holes in them too, in places that would have strategic importance to Kularro's practiced roaming eyes. Instead of bringing a smile like he hoped, the thought only crushed his heart with sorrow. She deserved to have nice things, not tattered robes. She didn't deserve to die.

Kularro stared at the stone walls of the Citadel. So far, they were still intact, with mildew and moss growing in the hard-to-clean upper corners of the hall being the only sign that anything was wrong. He wondered if anyone would be left alive when the Corruption caused these walls to tumble down in ruins. He wondered if the Fourth World would even still exist that long.

He straightened, stirred from his musing, when someone stepped through the door. Inwardly, he smiled. He shouldn't have doubted that someone else would come. There were actually two of them, girls both, a couple years younger than him. Both of them were Wyrricsmen like Kularro, fair-skinned where his was more olive-colored. They eyed him warily as they took their seats at the corner closest to the door. Neither of them said a word.

They looked familiar. Kularro tried to remember their names but couldn't. He wondered if they both received the same invitation to the class that he had. Strange, that. It was the first such invitation to attend a lecture he had ever received. Mostly all he received were expectations that he attend. He pulled the folded piece of paper out of his ragged satchel, silently hoping it hadn't fallen out.

He sighed in relief when he found it. The invitation was written on remarkably crisp, unsullied paper and written in an elegant hand. It made no mention of the content of the lecture, nor its purpose. That had been half the reason Kularro had come; he had been intrigued. The other half was because he had nothing else to do except lay in his bed and wait for death to come. He remembered a magister once asking him, years ago, what Kularro would do if he knew that today would be the last day of his life. He had answered that he probably would go to class and learn as much as he could to find out why today would be his last day alive.

He stared at the invitation for a few moments longer before returning it to his satchel.

More novices then began to file in. A lone Mistclanner, mottled gray skin and matching shoulder-length hair, strode in like he owned the place, glanced around, and sat alone with haughty disdain for both Kularro and the Wyrric girls. Kularro didn't know the prick's name, and didn't care to find out. He was doubtless a friend of Iovan's. If so, Kularro was glad he wasn't sitting anywhere near him.

A few more Wyrricsmen came in, then a couple of the blue-skinned, white-haired male Tokkarintsmen. Clinging to the skin of the Tokkarintsmen were frost-rimed leather straps, lightly heatbound to draw body heat out of them, and covered over with their novice robes. Kularro knew that without them the Tokkarintsmen would die in a matter of hours, and painfully. He had known a couple of girls from Tokkarint, and had often wondered what they looked like under their heatbound straps.

No one from Faceless Clan so far as Kularro could tell—not that he would have been able to; they were from Faceless, after all—and only two from Canterell, a young man and woman who seemed not to know each other, or at least pretended not to. Kularro wondered what their story was. Possible scenarios spooled out in his mind: spurned lovers, both ashamed of the barbaric heritage reflected in the other's face. Of course, it could be that one or the other—or both—were Wyrricsmen, with their ruddy brown hair and fair features. But Kularro would have bet that by the way they carried themselves, with their obvious lack of confidence, they were Canterellsmen.

Kularro sighed. Why was he even bothering with this? Figuring these people out would lead to nothing. He guessed he did it only to take his mind off of things, distract him from his hunger. He hadn't eaten anything nourishing in three days, save for some beetles he found scurrying through the dormitories. He gave the lecture hall one final glance. Unsurprisingly, there were no Shannodsmen. Unsurprising, because they were the clan who had declared war against the world. People don't take kindly to that, and any Shannodsmen remaining in the Citadel likely had the good sense to flee before becoming a victim of scapegoat violence.

A handful more trickled in, bringing the total so far to twenty-six by Kularro's count, all of them with puzzled looks, all of them quietly awaiting the magister's arrival. Most of those he recognized were first-lifers like him. There were three in particular that Kularro was waiting to see, and none of them had shown up yet. Stannol, his best friend, would be there since Kularro had already talked to him about it. Stannol was a bit of what Kularro called a selective genius. In some things he was far beyond the abilities of his peers, in most others he was more or less oblivious. But good-natured, which was why Kularro was such good friends with him.

He was the next one in. Stannol, slightly round—though less round than he had been when they were younger—with a mop of curly black hair, grinned up at Kularro when he caught sight of him, and stepped on no less than three feet as he wormed his way through the narrow row to the seat next to Kularro's.

Stannol suddenly froze, then leaned over to block Kularro's view of the door. Don't look.

Shit, Kularro muttered, already knowing what to expect. Sit down.

Reluctantly, Stannol took the seat next to him, and sure enough, the next two people came through the door, crushing Kularro's soul in the process. Maye, the girl of his dreams, coming in on the arm of Iovan, the biggest asshole in the Fourth World.

Kularro watched it all, even as his stomach wanted to empty itself. Good thing there wasn't much in it.

Even despite the Corruption ruining clothing and food and causing everything perishable to perish much more quickly than it normally would, she looked gorgeous, not at all diminished. The clothes she wore would have appeared worn out on anyone else, but not on her. Wavy red hair gleamed as it hung free about her shoulders. Her perpetual smile seemed indomitable, like sunlight that could penetrate the deepest clouds.

Just seeing her momentarily drove all other thoughts from Kularro's head. The experience was sublime. But then it all came crashing back, and he saw Iovan touching her cheek briefly, saying a couple of words that widened her smile, before they disengaged and went to sit with the small group of their mutual friends. One of Iovan's eyebrows, handsomely dark while his close-cropped hair was bright orange, rose as he turned to briefly meet Kularro's gaze. Just long enough for his smile to be meaningful. Kularro almost rose to go strangle him.

You okay? Stannol asked, leaning forward.

Of course not. Kularro sighed. Sorry. I was just hoping for a more auspicious start to the day. He leaned back in his seat and tried not to stare at the back of Maye's head. He was almost successful.

A crash in the hallway startled nearly everybody, and a middle-aged man wearing the blue-trimmed-with-crimson robes of a magister pounded into the room. It was a magister that Kularro had never had before as an instructor, but was well-known for his eccentricity. Magister Ruethan.

Without a glance at any of the students here assembled, Magister Ruethan headed straight to the lectern, retrieved something from one of the inner pockets of his robe, and began to scribble on the lectern's surface. Immediately behind the magister, a complex web of sympathetically bound strings and pulleys began to drag bits of chalk across the massive slab of slate that covered most of the wall, copying what was written on the lectern. Words as tall as a man appeared on the slate.

Stannol read each one aloud as it was written. Why. Are. We. Here. Question mark.

Magister Ruethan lifted his gaze from his writing and settled it upon the various members of his audience. His eyes were hard, like a predator's, his cheekbones sharp and angular. Kularro felt like a worm being regarded, and then dismissed as unacceptable fare, by an eagle, when Ruethan's eyes took him in and moved on. Whereas many of the other older magisters had let their hair and beards grow freely, presumably to add to their reputation for sagacity, Ruethan's graying hair was shorter, his beard trim. Had Kularro not already known who he was, he would have pegged him as someone absolutely villainous.

Anybody have the answer for the rest of the class? The magister's voice was abrasive as his eyes continued to rake the class. Several people squirmed in their seats.

The Mistclanner, seemingly nonplussed as he rested his chin on his fist, raised his other mottled gray hand. The magister nodded for him to speak. We were hoping you could tell us.

A few nervous titters followed, mostly out of politeness for the Mistclanner's poor attempt at a joke. There was little that anybody found funny anymore.

The magister's expression did not change at all, but he simply ceased looking at the Mistclanner. Anybody have a real answer?

Silence reigned supreme for what seemed an eternity. Everyone was looking at everyone else to see who would be skewered next by the magister's disregard.

A girl, one of the two that were first in the lecture hall after Kularro, tentatively raised her hand. Kularro could almost see her thin arm shaking from three rows away. When Ruethan saw her, she almost looked like a rabbit that had seen a wolf.

She quickly snatched her hand out of the air. We're here, she began in a quiet, quavering voice, because Berahmain created our world?

Ruethan's face tightened in displeasure. It almost seemed as if he wasn't going to answer before he finally said, I'm sorry. Were you asking a question or answering one?

The poor girl shrunk in on herself.

Anybody else?

Someone Kularro knew was named Westen mentioned something about people coming from the Birthing Tree, and that ultimately being the cause of why they were there. The magister shook his head in disappointment.

And you truly are the best the Citadel has to offer?

The magister's words gave Kularro pause. He scanned the room, surprised he didn't realize it before. Some of the other novices he didn't know personally, but those he knew or at least recognized were generally at the extreme top of their classes. Kularro felt himself to be somewhat humble, but he knew that he was brilliant, and more consistently so than his good friend Stannol. Maye, too, was highly intelligent. It was that as much as her physical appearance which Kularro found attractive.

The question the magister had raised—and the Mistclanner's aborted attempt at clarification—took on new significance. Why were the smartest novices in the Citadel gathered here? Kularro frowned as he puzzled it out in his head.

He knew, though, that it was a hopeless path to pursue, at least until the magister was ready to tell them. Ruethan was fishing for something, Kularro knew, and they would be stuck waiting until he got what he wanted. Kularro thought he knew what it was. Before his judgment could get the better of him, he raised his hand.

Do you have something to add to this parade of absurdity, Kularro?

He charged ahead before he could get offended by the magister's words. The question is meaningless. Kularro almost puked when he realized what he had just told the magister.

And why do you say that? Ruethan asked. He didn't seem angry, as Kularro expected, but expectant. Almost pleased. He hoped his instinct had been correct.

Well, Kularro began, feeling his throat tighten, one of the problems is that everyone here has been answering a different question, yet each of these questions could have been implied by the one you asked.

And what's wrong with that?

The fact that the magister hadn't yet attacked him gave Kularro a small boost of confidence. Without properly defining the context of the question, its meaning could be anything, which is the same as its meaning being nothing in particular.

A ghost of a smile flickered on the magister's face, and was gone before Kularro could even convince himself he had actually seen it.

Ruethan began slowly pacing, absently spinning the bit of chalk in his fingers. He stopped and spun to face the class, his face becoming even more serious than Kularro imagined possible. All of you have no doubt seen what great peril our world is in.

Again the silence descended like a dark fog.

The magister broke it. Without intervention, the Fourth World and all of its people will be destroyed by the man known as the Returner. If the dire state of our world was no indication, the destruction of the Fifth World should be. Without thoughtful action, we are all doomed. Berahmain's plan will not come to fruition, the War beyond Time will be lost, and the Enemy will have destroyed the God and all of his seven worlds. Everything will simply cease to be.

His eyes searched them as he continued. You are the best of our students, rivaling even the greatest living magisters in your intelligence, cunning, and creativity. I am scarcely qualified to be up here, lecturing to you. But time has run out, and the number of magisters left in this Citadel has dwindled to a paltry handful. I have brought you here because you are the Fourth World's last hope for salvation.

He smiled. "And that is why you are here.

All of you know of Magister Willfonde. So long as there are voices to speak, his name shall forevermore be whispered in reverence and awe for what he has done for our world. Unfortunately, he is no longer among us. He should have been up here, not me. Alas. The other magisters and I have been poring over his studies, and have found some remarkable things.

The magister held up all the fingers of his left hand, and one finger from his right. Six primary texts he studied before leaving us on his final mission. Six, one for each clan—all of them forbidden to novices. None of the remaining brothers and sisters of the Church have figured out why these six, what he saw in them that we are missing. Perhaps there was some greater scheme that he had discerned by studying these texts. We don't know; he never told us. We do know, from those who have spoken to him and were somewhat close to him, that he had studied these six texts with singular intensity before leaving. We know that he believed them to be significant. Determining the nature of that significance is why we are all gathered here today. The most difficult part of our task, as Kularro has pointed out, is to determine the exact question we should be asking. Only then will we be able to answer it.

It hit Kularro, then, just how desperate things had become. The Church of the Overarch clutched its information closely, rarely divulging anything of importance to anyone outside its highest ranks. Few things changed in the Fourth World, but nothing changed less than the Church.

Yet here they were, handing out secrets like midday snacks.

To novices.

It was then that he noticed a stack of books, some bound in leather, others in cloth, all of them in various stages of decay. They had been sitting next to the lectern, these secrets that armies of previous epochs would have killed and died for, in the open and unattended. And he hadn't even noticed them. They had been hiding in plain sight.

Kularro had heard of towns and cities slaughtered to a man by the Returner's army, of monsters more unholy than any Aberration ripping men's souls from their bodies and dragging them down to the Third World in complete defiance of Berahmain's plans. But nothing he had heard or even imagined shook him as much as this. Before, he had idly wondered when the Citadel's walls would come tumbling down; he would have expected that to happen long before this.

The corners of Ruethan's mouth yanked up in a harsh smile. Any questions? No? He reached down to pluck the book at the top of the stack and opened it on the lectern. Then let us begin.

Fixing his eyes on the words before him, Ruethan read aloud.

Kularro closed his eyes and listened. He didn't merely listen to the words; he listened to what the words implied, as well as what they didn't say.

Using his unique ability to read into human action, Kularro heard a story very different from the dry historical account that Ruethan read. That story unfolded in Kularro's mind's eye, washing over him with all the power of a vision.

It swept him away to another place, another time.

Tokkarint Clan: Wholeness

4,410 Years before the End

A knock at the door disturbed the Kahn's study, which was deathly silent save for the quick yet deliberate scratching of a quill on parchment.

Come in, said Kahn Steyand, stifling his mild irritation. The missive he was composing was important, requiring his full concentration, and he didn't want to be disturbed. Being Kahn of his clan meant seeing trouble poised in every direction, even in times of peace.

And these times were anything but.

One of his personal guards opened the door from his position in the hallway, allowing in Tyerallic, Steyand's minister. Tyerallic's dress was impeccable at that moment, as it ever was, yet a few milky strands had escaped his otherwise perfectly-coifed hair, and such inattention to detail could only mean distress. That combined with the lines stretched across his forehead made his dusty blue face look like an ocean amidst a hurricane.

Tyerallic stopped in front of Steyand's sturdy yet ornately-carved granite desk and bowed sharply. My Kahn.

Steyand clenched the crystal quill in his hand, and willed himself to relax. Once his composure had been regained, he set aside the missive he was writing. He had already pushed from his mind what it said and to whom it was addressed. He did not set aside the quill. What is it, Tyerallic? He asked the question, though he dreaded the answer. From the moment his minister stepped into the room, looking as he did, Steyand knew why he had come.

Tyerallic's face did not change, yet he hesitated before answering. A slight sigh escaped his pale blue lips but not Steyand's notice. My Kahn, Nauhmen's latest messenger has arrived.

The crystal quill snapped, startling Steyand. He dropped the quill on his desk and pressed a kerchief to the cut on his hand, which had begun to bleed. It was little more than a scratch, but it wouldn't do to let his emotions master him.

He nodded to Tyerallic. Take me to him.

* * *

Five guards trailed behind Steyand as he strode down the hall, boot heels clicking in time against the frosted tile floor. Vaulted ceilings, tiled in alabaster, loomed high above, supported by colonnades of crystal that flanked the hall. High-relief sculptures of former Kahns peered out from between the fluted crystal pillars, those faces carved of pure ice seeming to cast condemning glares on those that walked past them.

Tyerallic, at his side yet a step behind, wasn't fidgeting, but then he never did. He didn't need to for Steyand to see Tyerallic's anxiety as he caught glances of his minister out of the corner of his eye. Neither of them ever looked forward to meeting with Nauhmen's messengers.

Tyerallic gestured to a door on the right. He's waiting in there, my Kahn.

Thank you. Steyand turned to the guards. Wait outside.

The five guards snapped a salute as one and took their places on either side of the door. Another guard from down the hall joined them to give their formation its needed symmetry.

Would you like me to come with you, my Kahn?

Steyand shook his head. No... I shall deal with this myself. But stay near in case I need you.

Tyerallic bowed, turned, and began walking down the hallway.

Steyand breathed deeply, held it, then exhaled through his nose before gesturing to the guards to open the doors. The hinges groaned as the heavy doors swung inward. Steyand stepped into the waiting room, and then the doors were pulled shut.

The man lounging on the chair, one leg swung over the chair's arm, was not one Steyand had seen before. A hauberk of coarse steel mail covered his chest, ragged and battle worn. Matching greaves and vambraces armored his limbs. A hooded leather cloak lined with once-white wolf's fur was clasped with hooks shaped like talons. The man's smile was filled with arrogance as bold as the scars that puckered one of his eyes. Were it not for the man's blue skin and white hair, Steyand would not have believed him to be of the same clan.

The man stood, taking his time, letting Steyand know who was to be in control of the conversation.

Steyand said nothing to dispute it, but rather waited patiently for the man to speak.

My name is Drell, he said. As I'm sure you've figured out, I come on behalf of Nauhmen.

Of course. What is it your master wants today?

The man's smile transformed into a scowl at the word master. He flipped back the edge of his cloak, exposing the steel sword sheathed at his hip, and rested his hand on its cross hilt. He didn't say anything immediately, and his smile came back. He obviously enjoyed making Steyand wait.

Such men took what power they could get.

Steyand wished he had brought his own sword, Glacier, to this meeting. He hadn't, of course, knowing that such an overtly defiant act would be frowned upon by his guest. As Steyand had learned, defiance had a high price when dealing with Nauhmen and his men.

He wants the Crystallier. And you're going to give it to him.

Steyand blinked, unable to believe what he had heard. What are you...? You can't be serious, can you? No, absolutely not. Was the man mad? That would ruin the whole clan. And give Nauhmen unimaginable power, Steyand realized with mounting dread.

Drell was nonplussed by Steyand's outburst, obviously expecting it. He didn't say anything for several moments, giving Steyand time to consider the implications of not capitulating to Nauhmen's demand. Of course you'll need time to think it over, Drell said. Nauhmen has allowed for this. He can be quite merciful when he gets what he wants. He has given you three hours to comply. Meet him in the courtyard of the Symposium's western wing, and make sure you bring the Crystallier.

Three hours. Scarcely enough time to make a decision of this import, much less do what was necessary to act on such a decision. Can you give us more time?

Drell sneered. Three hours is all you get, and it's more than I'd ever give you. The limits of his authority were apparently being tested by the request, and Drell obviously didn't like that.

He rose, his scarred eye staring blankly at Steyand, and brusquely knocked. The door swung open and Drell left, leaving Steyand standing in the room, alone with thoughts of his clan's doomed future.

* * *

You can't seriously be considering giving in to this madman's demands, my Kahn! Tyerallic paced the room, flustered to a point beyond anything Steyand had ever seen in the man. His advisor's silver belt buckle was slightly askew, and the lace at his wrists was rumpled and ragged-looking. Enough white hair had escaped from his queue to render it useless.

It was an argument that was fast becoming old, even though Tyerallic seemed to never tire of making it. But Steyand understood Tyerallic's concerns, and felt them himself. The Crystallier was the crux of the clan's economy, not to mention a symbol of the Kahn's power. Steyand's very palace was built of the curved crystal blocks that only the wielder of the Crystallier could create. It was because of this magical device—the only one of its kind—that the unsurpassed sweeping and ethereal beauty of the palace even existed. These grand structures were the pride of the clan. Without the power wrought by the Crystallier, such objects of beauty would be the last of their kind, rendered a finite and fragile resource.

I don't see what other options we have, he said. You know what Nauhmen is capable of doing.

Yes, and we also know what he is capable of compelling us to do, snapped Tyerallic. Then he closed his eyes and sighed deeply. I apologize, my Kahn. I spoke out of turn.

Nonsense. Frowning, Steyand dismissed the apology with a wave. The last of Nauhmen's demands, before this newest one, had been the imprisonment of one of Nauhmen's enemies—and one of Steyand's greatest supporters. Not only did Steyand lose one of his closest allies, but all of his other allies had been forced to reconsider their trust in the Kahn. And the man had been popular with the people; imprisoning him had caused unrest. It had been catastrophic, but Steyand had had no choice. The price for disobedience, he had learned, was simply too high.

Tyerallic sighed again, his chin bowing towards his chest. Nodding, he stepped over to the glass window, frost-limned on both the inside and outside of the pane. He reached up and dragged two fingers along its surface. Glass, he said. A remarkable material. Difficult to make in our lands, all the more so if firebound. We don't have much in the way of magic here, my Kahn, and little wood for fueling the furnaces required in normal glass production. If we lose the Crystallier to Nauhmen... He turned to Steyand, despair in his eyes.

Steyand forced himself to meet that gaze. "I know what you mean, Tyerallic. You're absolutely right. Our clan doesn't have much magic. Sorcerers are rare, yet Nauhmen is one of them, and an exceedingly powerful one at that." Yes, Nauhmen had proven his power when the first of his demands were not met. The Fourth World had lost ten thousand souls that day, destroyed in a magical conflagration from nearly thirty miles away in the city of Stillrivers. Reports claimed that not so much as a single bone was left of those in that city, so hot were the flames. Steyand doubted that even the firebinders of clan Canterell could perform such devastation. He was afraid to imagine what other horrors Nauhmen would inflict upon them.

My Kahn, at what point will these demands stop? Do you think a man like Nauhmen, who obviously cares so little of the lives of his clansmen, will ever be satisfied? And towards what end do these demands aim?

I don't know, said Steyand. Good questions, all of them. We don't have much time to find out the answers, I'm afraid. He paused in thought, absently stroking his trim white beard. Could you have someone investigate this discreetly?

The expression on his advisor's face did not look hopeful. I have men trained to perform such a task, but they would normally need more than a few hours to discover any information worth knowing.

Have them do it. I don't want Nauhmen to know that they're even there. And if necessary, tell them that the future of our clan depends on their success.

I will, my Kahn. Tyerallic bowed and left the room.

Steyand walked over to his desk and sat in his chair. Finance reports, propositions from the council, and other sundry demands of his time were stacked on his desk. He had little time to think, to decide, before he had to retrieve the Crystallier and take it to Nauhmen.

Had he already decided his course, then? Nauhmen had promised that he would not use his powers to take any more lives if only Steyand complied with his wishes. But could he really trust such a man? Long ago, Steyand had learned the meaning of trust, and that trust, to be of any value, had to be earned. Nauhmen's actions so far had earned him nothing but fear and revilement.

But fear was a powerful motivator. Even though Steyand had not seen the destruction of Stillrivers with his own eyes, he could feel the ripples of its absence. The city had simply ceased to exist, as had all the people in it. Already clansmen began to believe that it was Steyand's fault since he was the one in power when it happened, that since he did nothing to stop it he must have allowed it to happen. And he had done nothing to cast the blame upon he who deserved it—another one of Nauhmen's demands. Steyand was thus seen as an impotent ruler, whose watch did nothing to prevent or rectify disaster. Steyand didn't care about his own popularity, but he also didn't want the people against him when he was the one truly fighting for them.

Was that what he was doing, though? Was he really fighting for them, or fighting against them?

He stepped over to the window. The frost obscured the view somewhat, but he was still able to see patches of his city through it. The hill from which the city spilled out could just barely be seen from where he stood. Spiraling crystal towers, such delicate and intricate beauty as only the Crystallier could form, stretched upward exultantly, dominating the skyline. Shorter buildings clustered around them, their roofs of ice sublimating in the early morning sun. If Steyand gave up the Crystallier, towers such as those would never be made again. But if he could stay Nauhmen's hand, at least these would still be standing.

His two-handed sword, Glacier, hung from its wall mount made of shale, its crystal blade sheathed in tooled leather. It was an ornate thing, with a gilded basket hilt and a sapphire in its pommel. Yet its edge could shame razors, such that Steyand feared to draw it in any but the direst circumstances. His sword was a work of art as well as a weapon beyond those forged by other clans, and it, too, could become a relic of a golden era that would soon be passing. Once Nauhmen got his way.

Slowly, reverently, he clasped the sword to his belt and returned to the window. He couldn't even say why he did it, other than it brought comfort to him knowing that such a treasure wouldn't be neglected when objects of its like were soon to be rare. An hour passed, maybe more, as he stared out and considered his bleak options. Whatever course he followed would take time to prepare for. He had to make his decision now.

He strode to the door and opened it. Get me Tyerallic, he said to one of the guards. And make sure he has the Crystallier.

* * *

Forty-seven guards were arrayed behind him as they marched through the city, wearing uniforms different from those normally worn in the palace. Unmarked, as if Steyand were nothing more than a councilman or a very wealthy merchant. His sword, with its ornate sheath and jeweled pommel, he worked to keep hidden within the folds of his cloak. Again, his advisor was at his side, but less than a full step behind him this time. From Steyand's hand hung a small leather sack, barely large enough to hold the single round object within.

Threads of vapor writhed and undulated across the ice-paved street as Steyand and his retinue marched down it. The blue-skinned people of his clan that stood or walked in the streets, going about their daily business, scattered at the sight of such a large troop. A young boy dragged a stubborn saddled dire elk across the street toward the stable that Steyand had smelled but not seen. The boy stopped and stared at the soldiers as they marched past, but doubtless didn't know who led them. No one could see Steyand's face, hidden as it was by the cowl of his cloak pulled low, nor would they recognize his simple yet well-made clothes as those of the Kahn. Those few foreigners that they passed , bundled up in heavy layers and breathing thick clouds of steam around faces wrapped up against the cold, wouldn't even know Steyand if they caught a clear view of him up close. Few people from other clans traveled here, even in peacetime.

Did you hear back from your man yet? Steyand asked in hushed tones.

No, replied Tyerallic. And I sent three. At least one of them should have reported back by now, even if they had found nothing.

Might they be waiting for us along the way?

No, my Ka— He cut himself off. No, sir. They had explicit instructions to return to the palace before the time of our departure.

Steyand cursed under his breath. He should never have ordered Tyerallic to send anyone out. Nauhmen had doubtless captured them and probably killed them, but not before torturing