descending column of hungry scavengers. He settled into his own body, his thoughts returning to their familiar byways through his mind, sensation coming back to arms, not wings, to feet, not talons. The constant, overwhelming stench of Codesh struck the back of his nose. He breathed out heavily, a conscious reflex, expelling the poisons in his lungs, then breathed in again, accepting the Codesh air as punishment.
“Brother Kakzim?”
The urgent, anxious whisper in Kakzim’s ear completed his return. He opened his eyes and beheld the killing floor of Codesh’s largest slaughterhouse. His kes’trekel was one of a score of birds fighting over a length of shiny silver gut. Before Kakzim could avert his eyes, the largest kes’trekel plunged its sharp beak into the breast of the bird whose mind he had lately haunted. Echoes of its death gripped his own heart; he’d been wise, very wise, to separate himself from the creature when he did.
He steadied himself on the polished bone railing that framed the balcony where he stood, waiting for the pangs to end. It was a somewhat awkward reach. Everything in Codesh was built to accommodate the needs of adults of the human race, who were by far the most numerous and, indeed, the most average of the sentient races throughout the Tablelands. Elves and dwarves made do without much difficulty, half-giants were cramped and clumsy, and halflings like himself were always reaching, climbing, or standing on their toes.
“Brother? Brother Kakzim, is there—? Is there a problem, Brother Kakzim?”
Kakzim gave a second sigh, wondering how long his companion had been standing behind him. A moment? A watch? Since he snared the now-dead kes’trekel? Respect was a useful quality in an apprentice, but Cerk carried it too far.
“I don’t know,” he said without looking at the younger halfling. “Tell me why you’re standing here like a singed jozhal, and I’ll tell you if there’s a problem.”
The senior halfling lowered his hands. The sleeves of his dark robe flowed past his wrists to conceal hands covered with scars from flames, knives, and other more obscure sources. The robe’s cowl had fallen back while his mind had wandered. He adjusted that, as well, tugging the cloth forward until his face was in shadow. Wispy fibers brushed against his cheeks, each feeling like a tiny, acid-tipped claw. Kakzim made another quick adjustment and let his breath out again.
The bloody sun had risen and set two-hundred fifty-four times since Kakzim had brushed a steaming paste of corrosive acid over his own face, exchanging one set of scars for another. That was two-thirds of a year, from highsun to half ascentsun, by the old reckoning; ten quinths by the current Urik reckoning, which divided the year into fifteen equal segments; or twenty-five weeks, as the Codeshites measured time. For a halfling born in the verdant forests beyond the Ringing Mountains, weeks, quinths, and years had no intrinsic meaning. A halfling measured time by days, and there had been enough days to heal the acid wound into twisted knots of flesh that still burned when touched or moved. But the acid scars were more honorable than the ones they replaced, and constant pain was a fitting reminder of his failures.
When he was no older than Cerk—almost twenty years ago—Kakzim had emerged from the forests full of fire and purpose. The scars from the life-oath he’d sworn to the Black-Tree Brethren were still fresh on his heart. The silty sea must be made blue again, the parched land returned to green. What was done must be undone; what was lost must be returned. No sacrifice is too great. The Black-Tree had drunk his blood, and the elder brothers had given him his life’s mission: to do whatever he could to end the life-destroying tyranny of the Dragon and its minions.
The Black-Tree Brethren prepared their disciples well. Kakzim had sat at the elders’ feet until he’d memorized everything they knew, then they’d shown him the vast chamber below the Black-Tree where lore no halfling alive understood was carved into living roots. He’d dwelt underground, absorbing ancient, forgotten lore. He knew secrets that had been forgotten for a millennium or more and the elders, recognizing his accomplishments, sent him to Urik, where the Dragon’s tyranny was disguised as the Lion-King’s law.
Kakzim made plans—his genius included not merely memory, but foresight and creativity—he watched and waited, and when the time was ripe, he surrendered himself into the hands of a Urikite high templar. They made promises to each other, he