'There is no other. He it was that wrote the signs upon the Feared's skin. Signs in the Old Tongue, the language of devils, across his left side. That flesh is of the world below. Where the word of Glustrod is written, the Feared cannot be harmed.'

'Cannot be harmed? Not at all?' Logen thought about it a moment. 'Why not write on both sides?'

'Ask Glustrod.'

'I don't think that's likely.'

'No.' A long pause. 'What will you do, Ninefingers?'

Logen peered off sideways into the trees. The notion of setting off running, and never looking back, seemed a pretty one, right then. Sometimes it can be better to live with the fear of it, than to die doing it, whatever Logen's father had told him.

'I ran before,' he muttered, 'and I only ran a circle. For me, Bethod's at the end of every path.'

'Then that is all our talk.' The spirit stood up from the fire.

'Perhaps I'll see you again.'

'I do not think so. The magic leaks from the world, and my kind sleep. I do not think so. Even if you beat the Feared, and I do not think you will.'

'Message o' hope then, eh?' Logen snorted. 'Luck go with you.'

The spirit faded back into the darkness, and was gone. It did not wish Logen luck. It did not care.

Authority

« ^ »

It was a dour and depressing meeting, even for the Closed Council. The weather beyond the narrow windows was sullen and overcast, promising storms but never delivering, casting the White Chamber into a chill gloom. From time to time heavy gusts of wind would rattle the old window panes, making Jezal start and shiver in his fur-trimmed robe.

The grim expressions of the dozen old faces did little to warm his bones. Lord Marshal Varuz was all clenched jaw and harsh determination. Lord Chamberlain Hoff clutched his goblet like a drowning man clinging to the last fragment of his boat. High Justice Marovia frowned as though he were about to pronounce the death sentence on the entire gathering, himself among them. Arch Lector Sult's thin lip was permanently curled as his cold eyes slid from Bayaz, to Jezal, to Marovia, and back.

The First of the Magi himself glared down the table. 'The situation, please, Lord Marshal Varuz.'

'The situation, honestly, is grim. Adua is in uproar. Perhaps one third of the population has already fled. The Gurkish blockade means that few supplies are making it to the markets. Curfews are in place but some citizens are still seizing the opportunity to rob, steal and riot while the authorities are occupied elsewhere.'

Marovia shook his head, grey beard swaying gently. 'And we can only expect the situation to deteriorate as the Gurkish come closer to the city.'

'Which they are,' said Varuz, 'at the rate of several miles a day. We are doing all we can to frustrate them, but with our resources so limited… they may well be outside the gates within the week.'