great storerooms, vast cisterns, training places for men and horses and wolves, armories, a dozen smithies, kitchens, stables, barns, stockyards, lumberyards, and space for all the workers, tools, and raw materials needed for twenty thousand people to survive a year under siege. And even at that, the Citadel was dwarfed in comparison to the castle that was MountThrall, for the mountain was honeycombed with halls and great rooms and apartments and dungeons and passages long forgotten that bored into its very roots.
Neither the Citadel nor the mountain had been full in decades and with the armies sent north and south, the place was even quieter than usual. Khaliras was now home to only the smallfolk, a skeleton crew of an army, less than half of the kingdom’s meisters, enough functionaries to keep the reduced business of the kingdom operating, the aethelings, and the Godking’s wives and concubines and their keepers.
Head among those keepers was the Chief Eunuch, Yorbas Zurgah. Yorbas was an old, soft, perfectly hairless man, even shaving his head and plucking his eyebrows and eyelashes. He sat huddled in an ermine cloak to ward off the morning chill at the servants’ gate. Before him was a desk with a parchment unrolled on it. His blue eyes studied Dorian dubiously.
“You’re short,” Chamberlain Zurgah said. He himself had a typical eunuch’s height.
And you’re fat. “Yes, my lord.”
“‘Sir’ will suffice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chamberlain Zurgah stroked his hairless chin with fingers like sausages encased in jeweled rings. “You have an odd look about you.”
In his youth, Dorian had rarely seen Yorbas Zurgah. He didn’t think the man would remember him, but anything that caused greater scrutiny was dangerous.
“Do you know the penalty for a man who attempts entry to the harem?” Zurgah asked.
Dorian shook his head and looked steadfastly at the ground. He clenched his jaw and, without raising his eyes, tucked his hair back behind his ears.
It was what he considered a stroke of genius; he’d given himself silver streaks in his hair, paired with slightly pointed ears and several webbed toes. They were features that only one tribe in Khalidor possessed. The Feyuri claimed to be descended from the Fey folk and were equally despised for that and their pacifism. Dorian appeared to be half Feyuri, which was exotic enough and from a group despised enough that he hoped no one would stop to think how his Khalidoran half made him look a lot like Garoth Ursuul. It also explained why he was short. “It’s the . . . other reason they call me Halfman, sir.”
Yorbas Zurgah clicked his tongue. “I see. Then here are the terms of your indenture: you will serve whatever hours are asked of you. Your first tasks will include emptying and cleaning the concubines’ chamber pots. Your food will be cold and never as much as you’d like. You are forbidden to speak with the concubines and if you have trouble with this, your tongue will be torn out. You understand?”
Dorian nodded.
“Then only one thing remains, Halfman.”
“Sir?”
“We have to make sure you’re a halfman after all. Remove your trousers.”
7
Lantano Garuwashi sat in Kylar’s path, his sword naked across his lap. Mountainous Feir Cousat stood beside him, meat-slab arms folded. They blocked a narrow game trail that led along the southern edge of the Hunter’s Wood. Feir muttered a warning as Kylar approached.
Garuwashi’s sword was unmistakable. The hilt was long enough for one or two hands; pure mistarille inscribed with gold runes in Old Ceuran. The slightly curving blade was inscribed with a dragon’s head, facing the tip of the blade. As Kylar came closer, the dragon breathed fire. The flames traveled within the blade, and before them, Ceur’caelestos turned clear as glass. The flames rolled out farther as Kylar approached. Kylar brought the ka’kari to his eyes and saw Ceur’caelestos in the hues of magic.
That was when he knew the sword was the product of another age. The magics themselves had been crafted to be beautiful—and Kylar couldn’t understand the least of them. He sensed playfulness, grandeur, hauteur, and love. Kylar realized he had a tendency for getting into things that were way over his head. Not least of which was trying to steal such a sword from Lantano Garuwashi.
“Drop the shadows, Kylar, or I’ll help you drop them,” Feir said.
Fifteen paces away from them, Kylar dropped the shadows. “So, mages can see me when I’m invisible. Dammit.” He’d suspected as much.
Feir smiled joylessly. “Only one in ten men. Nine in ten women. I can only see