“Sa’kagé means Lords of the Shadow,” Dorian said. “Thus Kagé means ‘Shadow,’ but I don’t suppose that one’s your fault. In any case, you ought to be more curious. Did it never occur to you to wonder why your peers had common names like Jarl, or Bim, or slave names like Doll Girl or Rat, and you were burdened with Azoth?”
Kylar went cold. He’d heard that wytches could read minds, but he’d never believed it. And those names. That wasn’t a random list. “You’re wytches. Both of you.”
Feir and Dorian looked at each other.
“Half right,” Dorian said.
“A little less than half, really,” Feir said.
“But I was a wytch,” Dorian said. “Or, more properly, a meister. If you ever have the misfortune of meeting one, you may not want to use a slur.”
“What are you?” Kylar asked.
“Friends,” Dorian said. “We’ve made a long journey to help you. Well, not only to help you, but to help you and—”
“And we’ve come at great personal cost and greater risk,” Feir interrupted, looking at Dorian sharply.
“We hope you have no doubt that we could kill you. That if we wished you harm, we could have already done it,” Dorian said.
“There are more types of harm than just killing. A wetboy knows that,” Kylar said.
Dorian smiled, but Feir still looked wary. Kylar felt the bonds release him. That unnerved him. They’d seen how fast he could move and yet they released him, armed.
“Allow me to introduce us,” Dorian said. “This is Feir Cousat, one day to be the most renowned swordsmith in all Midcyru. He is Vy’sana and a Blademaster of the Second Echelon.”
Great. “And you?” Kylar asked.
“You won’t believe me.” Dorian was enjoying this.
“Try me.”
“I am Sa’seuran and Hoth’salar, and once a Vürdmeister of the twelfth shu’ra.”
“Impressive.” Kylar had no idea what those were.
“What should be important to you is that I’m a prophet. My name is Dorian,” Dorian said with a native Khalidoran accent. “Dorian Ursuul.”
“You were right,” Feir said. “He doesn’t believe you.”
Aside from carelessness, the only things that could kill wetboys were other wetboys, mages, and wytches. In Blint’s estimation, wytches were the worst. He hadn’t neglected Kylar’s education. “Let me see your arms,” Kylar said.
“Ah, so you know about the vir,” Dorian said. “How much do you know about them?” Dorian bared his arms to the elbows. There were no marks on them.
“I know that all wytches have them, that they grow in proportion to the wytch’s power and their intricacy shows the wytch’s level of mastery,” Kylar said.
“Don’t do it, Dorian,” Feir said. “I’m not going to lose you over this. Let’s tell him the words and get the hell out of here.”
Dorian ignored him. “Only men and women who are Talented can use the vir. It’s easier to manipulate than the Talent and more powerful. It’s also terribly addictive and, if one dare speak in moral absolutes—which I do—it’s evil,” Dorian said, his eyes bright, holding Kylar. “Unlike the Talent, which can be good or bad like any talent, it is in itself evil, and it corrupts those who use it. It has proven useful to my family to have all meisters marked, so they are. My ancestors never saw any reasons to be marked ourselves unless we so chose. The Ursuuls can make their vir disappear at will, so long as they aren’t using it.”
“Blint must have skipped that lesson,” Kylar said.
“A pity it is, too. We’re the most dangerous Vürdmeisters you could possibly imagine.”
“Dorian, just tell him the words. Let’s—”
“Feir!” Dorian said. “Silence. You know what do.”
The big man obeyed, glowering at Kylar.
“Kylar,” Dorian said. “You’re asking a drunkard who’s quit drinking to take just one glass of wine. I’ll live in misery for weeks for this. Feir will have to watch me constantly to see that I don’t slip away to that madness. But you’re worth it.”
Feir’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t say a word.
Dorian held his arms out and a shimmer passed over them. As Kylar stared at them, it looked as if veins deep in the man’s arms were wriggling, struggling to get to the surface of his skin. Then, rapidly, they rose all together. Dorian’s arms turned black like a million fresh tattoos were being inked over each other. Layer knotted on layer, each distinct, interlocking with those below and above, darker over lighter with darker still coming in above. It was beautiful and terrible. The vir swelled with power and moved, not just with Dorian’s arms, but independently.