supreme mystery — which is precisely why Arnem is reluctant to send the second-born of his sons to serve there, although such an act is expected of all families of even moderate stature in Broken society. Children who enter the service of the God-King are never permitted to see their families again; and a childhood spent in the alleys of the Fifth District long ago planted a powerful distrust of such secrecy in Arnem. Perhaps the service these children undertake is pious, and worthier than any life spent in Broken’s outer world; but it is Arnem’s experience that virtue, while it may sometimes need a veil, never requires utter obscurity.
But was it not Oxmontrot who wanted it all this way? Oxmontrot,‡ Broken’s founder, first king, and greatest warrior, and a hero to lowborn soldiers like Arnem. More than two centuries ago, Oxmontrot (himself lowborn, and able lead his people only after long years as a mercenary in the service of that vast empire that the citizens of Broken call
The fact that the Mad King had been a heathen, a Moon worshipper like the Bane, could not have helped his foresight in this regard, Arnem knows; yet despite his personal beliefs, Oxmontrot had presided over the building of the Inner City as a sanctum for his royal family, in his later years, and he had not opposed the introduction of the faith of Kafra and all its secret rituals into his city. Indeed, Broken’s founder had seen that the Kafran religion (brought home by several of his mercenary comrades in the service of the
Yet there had been a harsh side to this utility: soon not only those who
This recent silence has become especially difficult because the son whom Arnem wishes so earnestly to keep out of the reach of Kafra’s priests is anxious to undertake his service to the God-King in the shrouded Inner City; whereas his mother — Arnem’s wife, the remarkable Isadora,‡ renowned for her work as a healer within the Fifth District — is equally adamant that her husband’s long and loyal service to the kingdom ought to free any and all of their five children from religious obligations that will break the family into pieces. Arnem himself is torn between the merits of the two arguments: and religious doubt, while perhaps troubling for those whose daily lives involve no regular confrontations with violent Death, is an entirely different breed of crisis for a soldier. To feel that one is losing faith in the same god to whom one has prayed fervently for luck amid the horrors of battle is no mere philosophical vexation; yet Arnem knows he must resolve this crisis alone, for neither his wife nor his son will give any ground. His household has been in exhausting turmoil ever since several priests of Kafra arrived to inform Sixt and Isadora that the time had come for young Dalin, a boy of but twelve, to join their elevated society; and that turmoil is what has driven the sentek up onto the walls every evening for a fortnight, to spend long hours beseeching Kafra — or whatever deity does guide the fates of men — for the strength to make a decision.
Arnem takes a small piece of loose stone from the parapet and tosses it lightly in one hand, gazing down at the mighty outer walls of Broken. When originally carved from the natural stone formations that made up the summit of the mountain, the walls followed the basic shape of that peak, a roughly octagonal pattern, with massive oak and iron gates cut into each face. Staring at the portal beneath him, Arnem catches sight of two soldiers of Broken’s regular army. Though on sentry duty, the pair are trying to steal a few minutes’ sleep: they struggle to obscure themselves beneath a bridge that spans Killen’s Run, a stream that emerges from the mountain just outside the city wall, although its subterranean course begins within the Inner City’s eternally clear, unfathomably deep Lake of a Dying Moon.
From the point of its emergence under the southern wall, Killen’s Run rushes down the mountain to join the Cat’s Paw; and once, many years ago, these guards who now seek to hide on its banks would have been Arnem’s comrades. The sentek remembers vividly the weariness that drives regular soldiers to steal what rest they can. But the sympathy he feels for their plight cannot now stay his commander’s hand, and he drops his bit of stone downward, where it strikes one of the soldiers on the leg. The sentries leap from the cover of the bridge and look up angrily.
“Ah!” the sentek calls to them. “You wouldn’t feel such anger had that been a poisoned arrow from a Bane bow, would you? No — you’d feel nothing at all, for the wood snake venom would already have killed you. And the Southern Gate would now be unmanned. Keep vigilant!”
The two soldiers go back to their posts on either side of the twenty-foot gate, and Arnem can hear them grumbling about the easy life of the “blasted Talons.” The sentek could have both men flogged for their insolence; but he smiles, knowing that, exhausted as they may be, they will now perform their assigned task, if only to spite him.
Footsteps echo: an eager yet entirely professional step that Arnem recognizes as that of Linnet Reyne Niksar,† his aide.
“Sentek Arnem!”
Arnem turns to face the linnet, without standing. A golden-haired ideal of Broken virtue, Niksar is the scion of a great merchant house, who five years ago gave up command of his own
As the linnet approaches, Arnem smiles. “Good evening, Niksar. Have you seen the torches on the edge of the Plain, as well?”
“Torches?” Niksar answers in worried confusion. “No, Sentek. Were there many?”
“A few.” Arnem studies the deep lines of concern above Niksar’s light brows. “But a few are very often enough.” The commander pauses. “You bring a message, I see.”
“Yes, Sentek. From Yantek Korsar.”
“Korsar? What’s he doing up at this hour?” Arnem laughs affectionately: for it was Yantek Korsar who first recognized Arnem’s extraordinary potential, and sponsored him for high rank.
“He says it is most urgent. You are to bring your aide—”