because it meant the dog-headed monster was not real, that the colors I had seen around the guards at the Harriers' Gate, the colors around the ostler, were not real, either. It was only madness, not that I had fallen into Hell.
Then I thought, And what, pray tell, is the difference?
Looking at the ground, I saw that Malkar's shadow had a dog's head.
I ride behind the dog out of the city, the city of shadows, the city of burning, the city of ghosts. When the gatemouth has shrunk behind us, the dog stops and comes back and ties my hands to the saddle. Then we ride again. I don't know how long we ride. Everything hurts, and the city is screaming behind me.
We stop. The dog drags me off the horse. There is a fire. Later, the dog makes me eat; everything tastes like soot. I am afraid the dog will make me do other things, but it leaves me alone. I am so grateful I start crying, and it snarls at me to keep still.
I must have slept, for I woke from a nightmare in pitch-blackness, with the stars above me like cold eyes. The Virtu still shattering in my head, I realized that I could hear myself screaming.
Malkar's paw caught me across the face with bone-rattling force. "Quit that noise!"
I had nothing left but obedience to Malkar; I did as he said. He kicked me and then, satisfied, went back to the other side of the fire. I sobbed, half strangling myself in my efforts not to make a sound, and eventually fell back asleep because I was too exhausted even for grief.
My dreams were chaotic and confused, full of fire and stone.
Shannon weeps in endless silence, and the Virtu shatters like a child's toy. Malkar chains me in his stone pentagram. Keeper smiles at me, fingering the haft of his whip, and I take off my shirt obediently. Robert's poisonous malice drips from his smile, and Stephen looks at me and looks away.
Malkar shook me awake at dawn. He was himself; I did not look at his shadow.
He tied my hands to the saddle again before we started; I wondered if he was afraid that I would bolt or that I would faint.
Last night it had all been darkness and dizziness. This morning, I recognized that we were in the
Grasslands, in the vast, empty land that neither the Protectorate of Marathat nor the Empire of Kekropia valued enough to start a war over. We were, of course, heading toward the Bastion, where Malkar would doubtless be greeted as a hero and I as his catamite.
As his catamite. For a second, I couldn't breathe.
I could feel the damage done to my mind as vividly as I saw the wreckage of the Virtu every time I closed my eyes. I could not touch my power, sundered from it by a chasm of pain as dark as the Sim. My last possible weapon against Malkar was gone; now that I was desperate enough, mad enough, to turn my magic against him, I could not. He had taken it away from me, as he had taken everything else.
Mildmay
Mrs. Pickering pounded on the door.
I came bolt awake, out of a dream—something about the Boneprince, and Rindleshin, I don't know—and shoved my fingers through my hair on the way to the door. More for me than her.
I was expecting a fight—about the rent, about Scabious, about Kethe knows what—but when I opened the door, her face said otherwise.
"What?" I said.
"I've been hearing things all morning. Something happened up there. Something bad. You know anything?"
In the Lower City, "up there" means the Mirador. People don't like to say the name. It's bad luck.
"Not me," I said. But bad news from the Mirador is bad news for everybody, one way or another. "I can go ask around."
"That's good of you, Gilroi." She stood there a second, like she was going to say something else, and then went away.
I dragged my boots on and went out.
I knew where I was going. I mean, if you're just out to shoot the shit, that's one thing, and I could have gone a septad different places for that. But that would only get me the same rumors Mrs. Pickering had been hearing. For real information, you
Then I thought, And what, pray tell, is the difference?
Looking at the ground, I saw that Malkar's shadow had a dog's head.
I ride behind the dog out of the city, the city of shadows, the city of burning, the city of ghosts. When the gatemouth has shrunk behind us, the dog stops and comes back and ties my hands to the saddle. Then we ride again. I don't know how long we ride. Everything hurts, and the city is screaming behind me.
We stop. The dog drags me off the horse. There is a fire. Later, the dog makes me eat; everything tastes like soot. I am afraid the dog will make me do other things, but it leaves me alone. I am so grateful I start crying, and it snarls at me to keep still.
I must have slept, for I woke from a nightmare in pitch-blackness, with the stars above me like cold eyes. The Virtu still shattering in my head, I realized that I could hear myself screaming.
Malkar's paw caught me across the face with bone-rattling force. "Quit that noise!"
I had nothing left but obedience to Malkar; I did as he said. He kicked me and then, satisfied, went back to the other side of the fire. I sobbed, half strangling myself in my efforts not to make a sound, and eventually fell back asleep because I was too exhausted even for grief.
My dreams were chaotic and confused, full of fire and stone.
Shannon weeps in endless silence, and the Virtu shatters like a child's toy. Malkar chains me in his stone pentagram. Keeper smiles at me, fingering the haft of his whip, and I take off my shirt obediently. Robert's poisonous malice drips from his smile, and Stephen looks at me and looks away.
Malkar shook me awake at dawn. He was himself; I did not look at his shadow.
He tied my hands to the saddle again before we started; I wondered if he was afraid that I would bolt or that I would faint.
Last night it had all been darkness and dizziness. This morning, I recognized that we were in the
Grasslands, in the vast, empty land that neither the Protectorate of Marathat nor the Empire of Kekropia valued enough to start a war over. We were, of course, heading toward the Bastion, where Malkar would doubtless be greeted as a hero and I as his catamite.
As his catamite. For a second, I couldn't breathe.
I could feel the damage done to my mind as vividly as I saw the wreckage of the Virtu every time I closed my eyes. I could not touch my power, sundered from it by a chasm of pain as dark as the Sim. My last possible weapon against Malkar was gone; now that I was desperate enough, mad enough, to turn my magic against him, I could not. He had taken it away from me, as he had taken everything else.
Mildmay
Mrs. Pickering pounded on the door.
I came bolt awake, out of a dream—something about the Boneprince, and Rindleshin, I don't know—and shoved my fingers through my hair on the way to the door. More for me than her.
I was expecting a fight—about the rent, about Scabious, about Kethe knows what—but when I opened the door, her face said otherwise.
"What?" I said.
"I've been hearing things all morning. Something happened up there. Something bad. You know anything?"
In the Lower City, "up there" means the Mirador. People don't like to say the name. It's bad luck.
"Not me," I said. But bad news from the Mirador is bad news for everybody, one way or another. "I can go ask around."
"That's good of you, Gilroi." She stood there a second, like she was going to say something else, and then went away.
I dragged my boots on and went out.
I knew where I was going. I mean, if you're just out to shoot the shit, that's one thing, and I could have gone a septad different places for that. But that would only get me the same rumors Mrs. Pickering had been hearing. For real information, you
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