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Authors: Brent Weeks
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bowed. “I am Dehvirahaman ko Bruhmaeziwakazari,” he said with an odd cadence
that came from growing up speaking a tonal language. “You may . . . hearken? . . . call, yes, call me Dehvi.” He smiled. “You are Vi, yes?”
Vi rose, swallowing. This man had snuck up on her—a wetboy—and thrown her to the ground easily, and now he stood smiling and
friendly. It was as unnerving as having a blue ball of death pass inches from her face.
“Come,” Dehvi said. “This place is safe no more. I will escort you.”
“What are you talking about?” Vi asked.
“Magic . . . calls to? asks to? hearkens to? the demon of the Wood.” Dehvi wrinkled his nose. Vi knew what he meant, but
she wasn’t sure what word he was looking for.
“Beckons!” he said, finding it. “That beckon means death.”
“That call,” Vi said, putting his words together slowly. Magic called the Hunter. The Vürdmeister had used magic, and Vi was
Talented. The Hunter might be coming.
The stalker frowned. “These word give me difficults. Too many meanings.”
“Where are you taking me?” Vi asked. And do I have any choice? Her body relaxed to Alathea’s Waking and her fingers dipped casually to check her daggers on their way to brush the dirt
from her pants—except the daggers were gone.
The stalker regarded her coolly. Clearly she hadn’t checked casually enough. “To Chantry.”
He turned and knelt beside the corpse, muttering under his breath in a language Vi didn’t recognize. He spat on the man three
times, cursing him not with foul words as Vi cursed, but actually commending the man’s soul to some Ymmuri hell.
“You wish to go?” Dehvi asked, offering her the daggers.
“Yes,” Vi said, taking them gingerly. “Please.”
“Then come. The demon hunts. Is best to leave.”
12
When Dorian had first been studying to become a Hoth’salar, a Brother of Healing, he’d invented a little weave to mimic the
symptoms of influenza by killing the life that inhabited the stomach, with devastating results that cleared up within a day
or two. Several times, to Solon’s and Feir’s vast amusement, Dorian had used it for other than scholarly reasons. Now “influenza”
swept through the eunuchs, and Halfman was pressed into double shifts and unfamiliar tasks. He’d even made himself sick first
to eliminate suspicion.
Today, two of the most trusted eunuchs were sick. Halfman climbed the stairs to the Tygre Tower, an unheated basalt obscenity
that looked on the verge of toppling in a high wind. He moved past thousands of the great marsupial cats. They looked like
wolves with exaggerated maws, sword-like canines, and orange and black stripes. Everywhere one looked, the tygres looked back.
There were tapestries, etchings, tiny statues, ancient mangy stuffed specimens, necklaces of teeth, paintings of tygres tearing
apart children. The styles were a hodgepodge, unimportant. All that had mattered to Bertold Ursuul was that they featured
sword-tooth tygres.
Dorian reached the top of the tower breathless, shivering from the cold, sorry that the food he’d carried had long lost its
warmth, and apprehensive about who would be up here. If she were one of the Talented wives or concubines, she might smell
the magic on him. The depth of the women’s ensnarement was such that any who found a traitor would report him immediately.
Dorian knocked on the door. When it opened, his breath whooshed out.
She had long dark hair, large dark eyes, a slender but shapely figure under a shapeless dress. No cosmetics heightened her
eyes and none rouged her lips. She wore no jewelry. She smiled and his heart stopped. He’d never met her, but he knew that
smile. He had seen that dimple on the left side, a little deeper than the one on the right. She was the one.
“My lady,” Dorian said.
She smiled. She was a small young woman with sad, kind eyes. So young!
“You can speak,” she said, and her voice
that came from growing up speaking a tonal language. “You may . . . hearken? . . . call, yes, call me Dehvi.” He smiled. “You are Vi, yes?”
Vi rose, swallowing. This man had snuck up on her—a wetboy—and thrown her to the ground easily, and now he stood smiling and
friendly. It was as unnerving as having a blue ball of death pass inches from her face.
“Come,” Dehvi said. “This place is safe no more. I will escort you.”
“What are you talking about?” Vi asked.
“Magic . . . calls to? asks to? hearkens to? the demon of the Wood.” Dehvi wrinkled his nose. Vi knew what he meant, but
she wasn’t sure what word he was looking for.
“Beckons!” he said, finding it. “That beckon means death.”
“That call,” Vi said, putting his words together slowly. Magic called the Hunter. The Vürdmeister had used magic, and Vi was
Talented. The Hunter might be coming.
The stalker frowned. “These word give me difficults. Too many meanings.”
“Where are you taking me?” Vi asked. And do I have any choice? Her body relaxed to Alathea’s Waking and her fingers dipped casually to check her daggers on their way to brush the dirt
from her pants—except the daggers were gone.
The stalker regarded her coolly. Clearly she hadn’t checked casually enough. “To Chantry.”
He turned and knelt beside the corpse, muttering under his breath in a language Vi didn’t recognize. He spat on the man three
times, cursing him not with foul words as Vi cursed, but actually commending the man’s soul to some Ymmuri hell.
“You wish to go?” Dehvi asked, offering her the daggers.
“Yes,” Vi said, taking them gingerly. “Please.”
“Then come. The demon hunts. Is best to leave.”
12
When Dorian had first been studying to become a Hoth’salar, a Brother of Healing, he’d invented a little weave to mimic the
symptoms of influenza by killing the life that inhabited the stomach, with devastating results that cleared up within a day
or two. Several times, to Solon’s and Feir’s vast amusement, Dorian had used it for other than scholarly reasons. Now “influenza”
swept through the eunuchs, and Halfman was pressed into double shifts and unfamiliar tasks. He’d even made himself sick first
to eliminate suspicion.
Today, two of the most trusted eunuchs were sick. Halfman climbed the stairs to the Tygre Tower, an unheated basalt obscenity
that looked on the verge of toppling in a high wind. He moved past thousands of the great marsupial cats. They looked like
wolves with exaggerated maws, sword-like canines, and orange and black stripes. Everywhere one looked, the tygres looked back.
There were tapestries, etchings, tiny statues, ancient mangy stuffed specimens, necklaces of teeth, paintings of tygres tearing
apart children. The styles were a hodgepodge, unimportant. All that had mattered to Bertold Ursuul was that they featured
sword-tooth tygres.
Dorian reached the top of the tower breathless, shivering from the cold, sorry that the food he’d carried had long lost its
warmth, and apprehensive about who would be up here. If she were one of the Talented wives or concubines, she might smell
the magic on him. The depth of the women’s ensnarement was such that any who found a traitor would report him immediately.
Dorian knocked on the door. When it opened, his breath whooshed out.
She had long dark hair, large dark eyes, a slender but shapely figure under a shapeless dress. No cosmetics heightened her
eyes and none rouged her lips. She wore no jewelry. She smiled and his heart stopped. He’d never met her, but he knew that
smile. He had seen that dimple on the left side, a little deeper than the one on the right. She was the one.
“My lady,” Dorian said.
She smiled. She was a small young woman with sad, kind eyes. So young!
“You can speak,” she said, and her voice
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