Caine Black Knife

“Yeah, well, sometime around a thousand years ago, this Panchasell started to understand what my people were going to be capable of. That’s when he decided to close the dillin. That’s what he did with the dil T’llan. Shut them. Shut them all.”

“Impossible.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“The primals may be the greatest spellcasters of Home, but no mortal could wield power of that magnitude- not even Ma’elKoth, prior to His Assumption. Across the world? Overload would have incinerated even Him like one of His own Firebolts. To close the dillin for even a moment, let alone a thousand years-eight hundred years after Panchasell’s death-”

“You said it. No one mortal.”

“Ah.” Her eyes narrowed, then widened again. “A Power?”

“Yeah. An Outside Power.” Knots that I hadn’t noticed tying themselves in my guts started to wrench tighter. “The Outside Power. The god of the Black Knives.”

“But even so-were It Bound to the Tear, to channel so much-”

“No. The Tear was. . just a device. The Tear gave It control over the river. Let It control the local weather, start the odd wildfire, whatever. The Tear was what let It make the Boedecken into the Boedecken Waste.”

She was looking off into the distance, now, far beyond the walls.

“Outside Powers feed on anguish,” I said. “Not just human anguish. Panchasell made It master of the Waste, letting things grow here just enough to suffer. And when the Black Knives would offer it, well, snacks-extra power-it could pay them with power in return.”

I looked out the kitchen window, out over the garden toward the face of Hell. “It still does.”

“You’re saying it’s still here.”

“I’m saying here is what it is.” I waved a hand out her window into the darkness. “This is it. That’s it. The dil T’llan. Right there.”

“How do you know all this?” Her voice was hushed, but with awe, not disbelief.

“You said you read my report.”

“But-but for all these years-”

“Shit, t’Passe, I was a kid. I didn’t know what I knew. It wasn’t until three years ago that anybody other than Ma’elKoth and my dad knew that the Quiet Land was Earth-y’know, Arta-and my dad was fucking crazy. It’s not like the Outside Power understands what it’s doing; it’s not even really sentient, as near as I could or can comprehend. It’s just a bundle of bizarre fucking tropisms that exists on the far side of reality. That’s how the Black Knife bitches could use It without Binding It: It was already Bound here. With the right kind of attunement, the part of It that made contact with a bitch’s mind would automatically resonate with her intention. Goddamn reverse theurgy.”

“But even so-how is this the concern of the Monasteries?”

“It’s not. Not directly. It’s the concern of the Empire. Because BlackStone Mining is an Artan operation-run, most likely, by Aktiri and Overworld Company goons trapped here on Assumption Day-that has found a way to control the dil T’llan.”

“How do you know this?”

“Not important. The point is: there’s an Ankhanan insurgency already operating in Purthin’s Ford.”

“This Smoke Hunt?”

“Freedom’s Face.”

“Oh, please, Caine-we know all about-”

“You think you do. Among all those idealistic starry-eyed middle-class Ankhanan kids are hard-core covert operatives-most of them probably primal, concealed under different types of Illusion, but maybe humans too. Thaumaturgic Corps adepts, Grey Cats, I don’t even know what. They’re here to take out the Artans and regain control of the dil T’llan, but the Artans are under Khryllian protection. And nobody knows how much the Khryllians know about what the Artans are up to. One thing I know for sure is that this whole city’s about to go up in flames.”

“And how do you know this?”

I looked her right in the eye. “Because I’m here.”

Her answering stare went thoughtful.

“You need to get this in a report to the Council of Brothers right away, and they need to get-at the very least-a reinforced strike team inserted into Purthin’s Ford just as fast as the fuckers can friarpace. This may be the our only opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

I took a deep breath. “The Order of Khryl has at least one, probably two, True Relics.”

The pen in her hands snapped with a sound like a breaking finger. “You cannot be serious.”

“I could be wrong. But I don’t think so.”

“Caine, it’s impossible. We would know.”

“Sure you would. They’re here, in Purthin’s Ford, and they’re in use. Regular, everyday ritual practice.”

“But they-” She let the fragments of her pen drop to the floor and passed a hand over her eyes. After a moment, she said softly, “What sort of ritual?”

“Some kind of Atonement. It seems to be something that is a guaranteed privilege of any ordained Knight. Beyond that, I’m not sure.”

I held out my right hand, opening and closing my fingers meditatively.

With just the faintest breath of mindview, I could see the power of Khryl’s Blood shining there. “The True Relic I think they have-one I can’t confirm, but I’m pretty sure-is Khryl’s Hand.”

Her face was white as the bleached sheet on the table beside her. “The Butcher’s Fist. .”

“They call it the Hand of Peace.”

“They would.”

“I think they’ve had it all along; I think Ma’elKoth built it into the Spire for them. I think it’s the only reason the Spire can stand at all.”

“You think?”

I shrugged. “Ma’elKoth and I are not on speaking terms these days. There’s some source of power holding that fucking monstrosity up. I can’t imagine anything less than a True Relic would be reliable.”

“The fortress of their faith,” t’Passe murmured. Her bloodless lips quirked toward a smile but missed it on the twitchy side. “That would suit Ma’elKoth’s, mmm, I suppose one might call it His sense of humor. Or artistic irony, perhaps: to build the Order of Khryl an impregnable keep founded upon a True Relic of their god-their worship itself upholding their Eternal Vaunt. .”

“Yeah. Look at me laughing. The other True Relic is one the Council’s gonna be even more interested in. You better tell Ambassador Raithe too. This one I can personally confirm; I was close enough to touch it. They’ve got the hilt to what they call the Accursed Blade.”

I dropped back into the chair by the stove and tried to swallow the sick twist in my stomach. “It’s the Sword of Man.”

T’Passe’s cane thumped on the floor. Both hands on its head, she shoved herself upright. “This-this would not be a Relic-Jereth was no god-”

“It’s a Relic. Whatever the Godslaughterer might have been-whatever his sword might have been-it’s for motherfucking sure a True Relic now.”

“How-?”

“How should I know? Let the giant brains at the Monasteries figure it out; what the hell else are you good for?”

“Well. . I suppose,” she murmured, frowning, “having struck the defining wound to their god would Fetishize it for them considerably. .”

“They’re not the only ones who Fetishize the goddamn thing. We call it the Sword of fucking Man, for shit’s sake.”

She stopped and turned to squint at me. “This is more than your reflexive hostility. You are angry. What has you angry about this?”

I found myself panting through clenched teeth. “Here’s another one for you giant brains,” I said. “This is what