After what seemed for ever, the screams died away. The stillness of night rushed back, broken only by the roar and crackle of the pyre. Kurkas, his eye stinging from the smoke and his skin raw in the backwash of the flames, watched until the shape at the pyre’s heart collapsed into the flames. Only then did he turn away, and cuffed tears from filthy cheeks.

Brask approached from beyond the ring of lanterns and threw a salute. “Dastarov’s away.”

There should have been satisfaction in that. Joy, even. Both seemed too distant to acknowledge, much less embrace.

“Sir?” Brask edged closer, more hesitant this time. “Did you hear me? It worked.”

Kurkas took a deep breath, bitter smoke swirling into his lungs. “Put it out. Put it all out. Then you bury whatever’s left, and you bury it so deep that nothing can touch her until the light of Third Dawn. You understand me?”

“Of course, sir. Whatever you want. Where will you be?”

“Drunk. You can wake me in the morning.” He stared back at the pyre, and hoped it had all been worth it. “Assuming there is one.”

Maladas, 12th day of Radiance

Maladas, 12th day of Radiance

Where light rises, ambition follows.

from the sermons of Konor Belenzo

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Six

Time had lost meaning for Viktor. There were only the hours where Hargo was present, and those blessed, fleeting moments when he was not. This was one such moment, to be treasured as long as it lasted. Shoulders screamed with every sway about his shackled wrists. Dull red fire blazed the length of his body. Breath rasped across a parched tongue. Even the tiniest motion sent hot shards flashing through wounds barely closed.

But Viktor knew his downfall would not come from mere pain, however cunningly wrought. No. The deeper Hargo’s silver burrowed, the closer Viktor’s shadow wormed its way to the surface.

If it emerged, there’d be no more questions. Only the fire.

All he’d striven for would come to nothing. He’d never see Calenne, unless chance brought them together in the mists.

The thought quickened fresh defiance, as it always did. But not enough. Viktor Akadra, who seldom admitted limits, now finally accepted their closeness.

A muffled scream jolted Viktor from his thoughts. A fellow prisoner?

Another scream quavered through the darkness. A woman’s, this time accompanied by the clatter and scrape of collapsing stone.

The cell door smashed inward. Light rushed in. A robed body collapsed against the opposite wall. Hargo. A battered bronze leg glinted dully in the corridor beyond. A metal hand reached through the doorway and brushed aside the splintered remains.

Elzar shuffled into the cell, his movements incongruously furtive for one who’d caused such commotion. Blood drained from his weathered face.

“Viktor? What have they done to you?” His throat bobbed. “Forgive an old man for taking so long to find his courage.”