sell-sword lifted it up. It was remarkably beautiful, and it existed nowhere else in the world. The riches, the fame he’d craved… it was all here, for the taking….
“No,” he said, stepping back. “It’s grave robbery, We’d be selling these people’s tomb”
Morias shrugged, regarding the shard in his hand. “They don’t need so much of it. If we just take a little for now…” He stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing, and cocked an ear.
Varen heard it too. At first, he’d mistaken it for the clang of the mercenary’s sword hitting the glass, still echoing out in the street. It wasn’t getting any fainter, though-it was growing louder. And then there was a new sound, rising above it: a sharp, pained cry, and the clatter of an armored body hitting the ground.
“What in the Abyss?” Morias grunted, dropping the glass. It clinked on the floor without breaking. His men were already moving toward the doorway, and Varen started to follow, but Morias shoved the scholar aside, hurrying after. The clamor of steel outside grew, fiercer with every heartbeat.
A man stumbled into the room then, and the sell-swords nearly cut him down before they realized it was one of their own, a burly man who fought with twin shortswords. One of the blades was gone now, and his left arm below the elbow as well. Blood washed his armor. He had a second cut across his chin, and his eyes were wide with terror.
Morias caught him as he collapsed, eased him down. “What is it, man?” he demanded. “Speak!”
“It… it got them,” the mercenary said, staring wildly. “It killed them all!”
The other sell-swords started at this, looking at one another. Varen bit his lip. Five men dead, a sixth cruelly maimed-and the battle, from the sound of it, had lasted less than a minute. A terrible dread settled over him.
“Who?” Morias shook the injured man, who had slipped into incoherent shock. “Who did this?”
“
The mercenaries stared at him-but only for a moment. Then steel flashed in the doorway, and another of them fell, his head toppling from his shoulders. Blood fountained, and Varen caught a horrible glimpse of the surprise on the man’s face before he crumpled into the dust. The other sell-swords stumbled back, crying out in alarm, and something came after them.
The Staring Ghost had come.
“Fall together!” Morias bellowed, waving his blade at his men. He may as well have been trying to guide a flock of sparrows. They tripped over one another, stumbled into pillars, swung wildly at the air.
Varen gaped at the apparition as it swept through their midst, cutting down one man after another as though they were stalks of grain. It wasn’t a ghost at all, but an old man- wiry and sun-beaten, his head covered by a white cloth, his beard wild and silvery. He wore a flowing white robe, torn and smudged with use, and in his hand was a glittering blade that danced with expert grace.
Strangest about him, though, were his eyes. They were dead white, with neither iris nor pupil, not clouded like a blind man’s, but utterly empty. Varen could meet their stare only for an instant before looking away. It was a strange, awful sight … yet there was something familiar about those eyes, something that nagged at his memory.
Finally, only Morias remained. He fought bravely, coming on with swift savagery, his sword darting at the old man’s face. The Ghost parried the blow easily, but it stopped him in his tracks long enough for Morias to shove him back. The two of them fell away from each other and paused, sizing each other up, This was a more evenly matched contest, and both man knew it. The Ghost wasn’t even breathing hard, though nine men had already died by his blade.
When they fell to again, the clatter of their swords sounded like hail on a copper roof. They were both masters of the blade, and recognized each other as such, giving and taking ground with a rhythm that was as much dance as fight. Every swing was precise, every parry exactly where it needed to be. Each man saw the other’s faints, and knew when a riposte was coming. Eyes, throat, stomach, breast… quick or slow, every cut and thrust was a potential killing blow, had it landed. But for a long time, none of them did.
Time became meaningless in the clamor of steel. Varen watched as if he were a spectator at a gladiatorial epic. Finally, however, a thought came to him, breaking through the fascination to scream in his ear.
Startled, he glanced toward the manor’s entrance. It was empty, unblocked: the Ghost and Morias had circled away, leaving the dead mercenaries scattered on the ground. Thoughts of riches and glory fled Varen’s mind: his quest had failed. The only question left was whether he would live to see the sky again. With a choked cry, he stumbled toward the doorway.
The Ghost saw him, his head turning to follow the movement-a telling mistake. Laughing, Morias lunged, thrusting at the old man’s heart.
Steel met steel. It was an impossible parry, the kind of move masters-at-arms strove for years to perfect, and it deflected Morias’s blade scarcely an inch from the Ghost’s chest, but saved his life. He wasn’t spared from harm entirely. Instead of his vitals, Morias’s blade slid deep into the flesh of the old warrior’s thigh. The old man groaned, his knees buckling.
Then his sword came up hard, its tip punching through the flesh beneath Morias’s chin. The sell-sword’s helmet flew off as the blade came out the top of his skull, and he stood rigid, his eyes widening. He slumped to the floor. The Ghost jerked his sword free, then staggered and fell as well, one knee hitting the floor hard. He pressed his free hand to his wound, trying to stanch the blood.
Varen stared, paralyzed by shock. His eyes met the empty orbs of the Staring Ghost-and then, in a flash, he knew who this man had to be.
The Ghost grunted, started to rise. Half-mad with terror, Varen turned and fled, and never looked back.
Chapter 1
The Lordcity of Istar was drowning in roses.
They were everywhere, white and red and golden: draped in blankets from gleaming, white walls; hung in garlands from her alabaster towers and golden domes; gathered in bunches on lintels of doors; scattered about plazas and courtyards. Their petals carpeted the streets, drifted up against marble walls, floated on the surfaces of fountains and pools. Their attar ran as thick as smoke in the air, smothering the smells of spices and incense that ordinarily rose from the city.
Another Yule had come. The first festival of winter-a season of rain, rather than the snows that visited the realms to the west-was the grandest in the holy empire. Three days from now, the routines of the Lordcity would cease, and the citizens would give themselves over to drink and feasting in homes and wine-shops. The God’s Eyes, the twin silver lighthouses that guarded the mouth of the city’s port, would burn crimson instead of white, and the School of the Games in the eastern quarter would resound with the clash of steel and cheers of the crowds. In the west, at the crimson-turreted tower that had once belonged to the Orders of High Sorcery, folk would burn straw effigies dressed in robes of black and red and white, in defiance of the hated-and long departed-wizards. To the north, the Hammerhall, the sprawling fortress that was home to the knights of the Divine Hammer, would throw open its mighty doors and the empire’s defenders would parade into town in their mirror-bright armor.
And in the midst of the city, at the heart of the world where all Istar’s roads met, the Great Temple of the Kingpriest would resound with joyful music. Its crystal dome would shine as though a second sun had kindled within. Thousands of worshipers, from all over the city, the empire, and the world beyond, would pack the
Today, however, life in the Lordcity went on as it always did. Mighty trading galleys and tiny fishing boats slid across the harbor and glistening lake beyond, a riot of bright sails billowing on then masts. Folk clad in robes of satin and velvet bustled through the sheets, or stood in clusters is in the plazas and gardens, talking and laughing
