their weapons, and questioned them extensively. There was no entrance that had fewer than four guards, and the ones she could get to without sprouting wings all had at least six.
She could fight her way through six or eight guards with little difficulty, but then what? The alarm would be raised, wave upon wave of guards would arrive to block her way. Gaven would get extra guards-they would know she was there to find him. Assuming he was actually in the palace and not in some prison elsewhere in the city.
Three more days passed in watching, waiting for something to change, some opportunity to arise, some sign to appear. On the morning of her sixth day of watching, something like a sign appeared. A dragon flew overhead, its scales gleaming copper in the sunlight. Its wings rippled rather than flapped as it swooped down and landed in one of the high arches of the palace. It perched there like an enormous bird for fully half an hour before jumping down into a chamber below.
Rienne wanted desperately to be that dragon, to spread great wings and fly to an open archway, to peer down and see, she imagined, Gaven on the floor of the chamber below. She would jump down beside him, let him climb on her back, feel his hands on her smooth scales, and then she’d fly back up and out, far away from Rav Magar-she’d fly until Argonnessen was a distant memory and the lands of Khorvaire spread out before them, until the towers and docks of Stormhome came into view.
A rumble of thunder jolted her from her reverie. The sky was clouding over, clouds forming from nowhere, directly over the dragon-king’s palace. Gaven was inside and alive! And in danger.
She sprang into action, tossing aside the tattered rags that wrapped her. Maelstrom had already begun its deadly dance by the time she reached the guards at the nearest gate, and two of them fell before they knew what was happening. Thunder rumbled again, and she lifted her voice in elation. Two more guards lay dead. Lightning struck the palace, very near, shaking the ground and walls around her. She was past the guards, but more were charging down the passage toward her.
She heard rain on the roof, and she laughed as she cut through the guards. He’s here! she thought. He is the Storm Dragon, and his storm will lift us out of here, together.
Another blast of lightning shook the palace, and wind howled through the passage, blowing at her back as though Gaven were calling her to him. The second wave of guards was dead or dying, and she ran unhindered with the wind. It led her unerringly through a maze of corridors until the passage opened into a chamber. Lightning struck again as she hurtled toward the archway. She saw the wind lifting dust and rubble into a whirlwind, and she knew that Gaven stood at the top of that column of air.
“Gaven!” she cried, but the wind swallowed her voice.
A flash of copper broke the whirlwind and brought Gaven to the ground. A shimmer of white light filled the chamber. She was almost there-in a moment she would be with Gaven again.
An enormous slab of stone fell from the roof of the chamber and crashed to the ground. The wind died, and she peered through a cloud of dust to the empty chamber beyond.
CHAPTER 32
Aric spent the remainder of the afternoon in the only form of meditation he knew-concentrating on every part of his body in turn, top of the head to soles of the feet, fixing the details in his mind. Seeking perfect focus, but constantly struggling to banish memories of Kelas, thoughts of his companions on this journey, and worries about the ceremony ahead. “Who are you?” he asked himself.
“Aric,” he answered, unsure what else to say. “From the Carrion Tribes, but I don’t know the name of my tribe. I’m about to join the Ghaash’kala, because the alternative is death. I’m a coward, a soft-hearted fool, and a travesty of a spy.”
Once more, head to toe. “Who are you?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure I care anymore. I’m dead.”
His head felt light. He realized he’d been speaking aloud-pathetic. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, find his focus. Instead, he fell asleep, eventually slumping to the floor.
“Deep in meditation, I see.” Farren’s voice jolted Aric from sleep.
Aric scrambled to his feet, but Farren seemed more amused than angry.
“Are you ready?” the paladin said, clapping him on the shoulder.
He nodded, too tired to speak, and shuffled behind Farren down the tower steps to the plaza.
Just like the night before, orcs of the Ghaash’kala crowded the plaza, but this time there were humans scattered through the crowd in small clumps as well. The Carrion Tribe converts apparently participated in the recommitment ceremonies, but not the memorials. Aric wondered whether they had their own ways of honoring the dead.
A clear path opened up before him, leading to the center of the plaza where the same orc priestess stood waiting, though today her robes were yellow. There was one other person waiting to take his vows, an orc boy of perhaps twelve or fourteen-ready, among the Ghaash’kala, to pick up a sword and fight the evils of the Labyrinth.
As he stood before the priestess, he felt the eyes of the crowd on him, and he felt naked. His heart pounded, and his eyes darted around as if he could somehow find a way to escape. He had never been more trapped or more exposed. How could everyone present not recognize him for a sham, even as a spy?
“Maruk Ghaash’kala,” the priestess said, her arms lifted and spread wide. “On this third night of gathering, we come as a tribe to witness the vows of these two men and welcome them among our ranks, warriors who will fight beside us. Hearing their vows, we will remember our own-our promise to serve Kalok Shash and participate in its work. Many of our tribe have fallen, but tonight we celebrate the replenishment of our numbers.”
Replenishment? Aric thought. How many names were lifted up the night before? How many of the Maruk had died in the past three months? Farren alone had listed a dozen. And now two men came to fill their places. The Maruk Ghaash’kala were dying out.
“Ghaarat,” the priestess said, standing before the boy and looking solemnly into his eyes, “today you die. As a ghost, you will fight the demons of the Wastes and their human servants, the foul beasts and mighty warlords. You will fight until at last you have proved yourself worthy of joining Kalok Shash. Are you ready?”
“I am,” young Ghaarat said, no hint of fear or hesitation in his voice.
“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to fight against evil in all its forms?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to permit nothing, living or dead, to pass through the Labyrinth, either to leave the Wastes or to enter them?”
“I do.”
“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to fight without fear, to fight until your foes are dead or you join Kalok Shash?”
“I do.”
The priestess turned, and a warrior stepped forward from the encircling crowd, a sword clutched in both hands.
“Ash Ghaal,” the priestess said to this man, “do you swear to guide Ghaarat in the ways of the Maruk Ghaash’kala, so that he might be found worthy to join Kalok Shash?”
“I do,” the man said, his voice choked with emotion.
The priestess turned back to the boy. “Ghaarat, you die this day.” She nodded to the man.
Ash Ghaal stepped forward and swung his sword at Ghaarat’s neck. The boy didn’t flinch, and the sword stopped a finger’s breadth from his flesh.
“Ghost of Ghaarat, join the Maruk Ghaash’kala.”
The man embraced Ghaarat-his son, Aric realized with a start-and drew him back into the encircling crowd. Aric stood alone before the priestess. She came and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were rich brown, and he lost himself in them, aware of nothing else. Her brow furrowed for a moment, as though she were troubled by what she saw in his eyes, but she continued with barely a pause.
“Aric, today you die. As a ghost, you will fight the demons of the Wastes and their human servants, the foul
