them fluttered tiny, five-pointed winter stars, which dotted the uneven top and colonised every nook and cranny of the wall itself.
The wind carried more than just the scent of flowers. He tasted the hopes and fears of all those assembled and felt the fervour of their belief like unexpected sunshine on his cheek. On his back he wore the wrapped sword — Ilumene had adapted a cross-chest baldric and incorporated it into Ruhen’s tunic. He was small enough that the sword still threatened to catch on the ground, but Ruhen was determined to keep it with him, especially now Zhia was dead and her secrets revealed.
This was his temple, even more than the prayer-festooned Duke’s Chamber, with its walls of unassailable conviction built by desperation and longing.
He wore a pearl-detailed tunic, open at the front to display a scored coin hanging on a chain around his neck. His preachers had carried the symbol far and wide; people spread across hundreds of miles now wore one just like it as an expression of their devotion. Most had not been touched by Ruhen’s shadow-spirit, of course; they were simple objects of faith, but there were dozens that did carry some trace of him, and Ruhen could feel his presence reach out like the folds of night.
Behind him he sensed Ilumene and Venn moving up to stand close as Luerce appeared on Ruhen’s left. The pale-skinned Litse was known by the whole crowd and the murmurs increased as they saw him. He was the First Disciple in their eyes, the shepherd of their flock of children, their link to Ruhen himself.
Strangely it was not Ilumene but Venn who would remind Luerce of his true position — the one he occupied in Azaer’s eyes. Or perhaps it was the spirit of Rojak in Venn’s shadow that was jealous of the reverence they showed Luerce, reverence that should rightly belong to Rojak as Azaer’s most favoured.
My twilight herald has a human soul still, Ruhen reflected, smiling inwardly. He fears the slow dissipation that Jackdaw has succumbed to, forgetting he is not one to be burned at the wick but a far greater part of me.
The end comes soon; they can all sense it. And in their human ways they bicker and squabble, for the waiting is suddenly too much for them to bear.
‘Brothers and sisters of peace,’ Ruhen called out in his solemn, child’s voice. ‘War has come for us.’ He bowed his head, his eyes closing for a moment as he savoured the new flavours bursting on the air: the earthy tang of fear blossoming, nectar-sweet anticipation, and hope, too, their faith in their saviour remaining unshakable. Against such flavours, how could flowers ever compare?
‘War has come, with its many faces, but with one purpose.’ Ruhen spoke in his usual soft voice, but Rojak was on hand to carry those words to the faithful. ‘The king and conqueror, ever keen to expand his reach; the heroic knight, eager to kill for his lord and further his own legend; the white-eye butcher, hungry for blood and pretending slaughter is glory rather than a monster’s basest desire. They come, and this day the Knights of the Temples shall face them.
‘I am just a child, too weak to march, too small to fight. They go to defend us, those of us who cannot defend ourselves, but they are outnumbered by an enemy more terrible than any the Land has seen.’
He hesitated, showing rare apprehension on his face to those close enough to see and appreciate the frailties of their saviour.
‘Our defenders face a terrible enemy, but it is not the Knights of the Temples that Narkang’s daemons seek to kill: no, they are coming for me — it is my blood they seek, and if our protectors fail, this plague of daemons will come to the Circle City.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘I cannot allow this horror to befall you, you are all innocent in this, but as long as they fear my message of peace they will hunt me. It is clear to me now that I must leave Byora, leave this protecting home and step out into the Land to walk alongside the preachers who carry my words.’
He stopped, the conviction on his sombre face enough to dampen the dismay and alarm that rushed around the gardens. There were gasps, the spice of panic waxing strong on the wind, but no shouts or cries this time. He didn’t want them to feel outrage, not now. The horror of what he was about to provoke would do that.
Until then, let them have hope. Let them see the saviour they desire.
‘This path has opened before me. The Gods have shown me the way’ — he smiled — ‘and all without the help of priests to interpret their wisdom.’
The comment lightened the mood a shade and Ruhen saw many of his white cloaked followers sit up a little straighter at their saviour making a small joke in the face of such impending terror.
‘I will travel east,’ he announced. ‘I will journey into the Waste, letting the will of the Gods guide my feet. I will travel into the lands scarred by the excesses of war and hatred, over poisoned earth and across fouled water, to seek the answers I know are out there. But before I go, I wish to share with you a gift, to protect the brave defenders of peace and this city, all I have ever known.’
He turned, and Ilumene hurried forward.
‘I ask for three of you to carry this gift,’ he continued as Ilumene untied the bindings around the sword on his back, then he gestured at the Litse. ‘Luerce, bring forward three whose faith is strong enough to bear this burden.’
There was no lack of volunteers, but the stern, silent Harlequins at the base of the steps prevented a sudden rush forward. Luerce picked his way down the steps with an almost fussy precision, revelling in the reverential air, uncaring whether the awe was reflected or not.
This one is the perfect servant, content in his place and faithful to his word, Ruhen reflected as he watched the shaven-headed disciple survey his eager flock. He is a rare man within my coterie of flawed traitors, trusting in his rewards to come and careful not to dream too grandly. Ilumene did well there.
‘Venn, shield your senses,’ Ruhen called behind him, and a hurried flare of power told him his order had been obeyed.
Three white-clad disciples came stumbling up the steps behind their shepherd: a burly, bearded man with odd-coloured eyes and the mien of a soldier fallen on hard times; an older woman, grey-haired but with a proud bearing and strong, handsome features, and a slim, black-haired youth following close behind.
Ruhen bowed to the three when the tallest came level with him and they stopped, hesitantly sinking to their knees. The Stepped Gardens grew quieter still, a congregation at prayer, as Ruhen looked down and, without ceremony, slipped off the cloth wrapped around the hilt of his sword.
The air filled with sparkling light, each mote of dust on the breeze glittering like a cloud of ice crystals. Gasps ran around the crowd and the wide-eyed youth kneeling before Ruhen gave a moan of shock. Ruhen slipped his small fingers around the shining sword grip and drew it from the scabbard. The blade sang in the daylight, casting a corona of dancing, dazzling light around him, and his followers sighed and whimpered, their hands raised to shade their eyes from the burst of white light that was as bright as the sun.
Ruhen was unable to look at the weapon held high above his head, but he felt his hand tremble at its touch. Without looking he could feel the pure, bright light shining through his skin, seeping into his bones and forcing his shadow-soul away. He gritted his teeth, unused to the discomfort slowly building towards pain, but determined.
Aenaris — the Key of Life, had been buried far from the sight of others in the Library of Seasons until the Menin lord broke the spell hiding it. Aenaris, wielded by the Queen of the Gods, Death’s equal, until the last days of the Great War. Azaer had kept its distance during those terrible days of earthquake and flame, of which only confused memories remained.
Many said the Queen of the Gods had sided with her beloved creations and fought at their side. Her name was considered accursed by all followers of the Chief of the Gods; it was recorded only in works of heresy, invoked fruitlessly by the foolish or the mad.
Did Zhia know her gift would pain me? Ruhen wondered as his skin crawled and the palm of his hand shrieked in pain, or does the Land seek balance for the white-eye’s burdens?
With an effort he lowered the weapon, feeling the shadows in his eyes recoil as light filled his mind. He took a step forward, then one more, and sensed the three disciples were within reach.
‘My gift I give to each of you,’ Ruhen croaked, ‘and so I charge you: bear my blessing in the name of peace.’
It was a long blade, wider than Ruhen’s palm, with a short tip like a crystal formation and a large forward- slanted guard. Each of the grip’s eight smooth faces was engraved with a phoenix, flanked by leaf-laden branches. Ruhen forced himself to face down its breathtaking presence and stare directly at the weapon more potent and powerful than anything in existence except its mate, Termin Mystt.
