Skerren nodded and glanced back. “How goes your own labors?”
Wryth straightened, reminded of his schedule. “We are close,” he answered. That was all he would admit. “I must be off. There is another who wishes to confirm my progress, and his temper is foul at best, even when he’s not left waiting.”
Wryth rushed off. He swept out of Skerren’s scholarium and headed toward another, one belonging to a dead brother. Once he was close enough, torchlight revealed two figures waiting in the hallway by the door. Wryth’s guest was accompanied by a tall Vyrllian Guard named Thoryn. The visitor stood stiff-backed. Torchlight reflected off his silvery armor. It was said he rarely removed it anymore, fearful of another attack.
Wryth closed the distance and lifted an arm. “Prince Mikaen, thank you for coming all the way down here.”
The prince turned, revealing the silver mask covering half of his face. Its surface was inscribed with a sun and crown, the Massif family sigil. When the light struck it just right, that sun would blaze like the Father Above. Right now, it reflected the angry flame of the torch.
Wryth also knew what lay hidden behind the silver. He had seen it once, shortly after Mikaen’s face had been stitched together. Or at least the little of his face that was still salvageable.
Mikaen grumbled, his voice still hoarse from all his pained screaming, “Show me why I came down here, so I can be gone from this wretched place.”
Wryth slipped past the prince and keyed open the door to Vythaas’s scholarium. “Do not draw too close,” he warned, and entered first.
The iron-walled chamber was as hot as a furnace. Chains jangled and snapped. Mikaen and his guard came behind him. Both gasped at the sight ahead. With his back to them, Wryth simply smiled.
“How…？” Thoryn asked, speaking out of turn.
Still, Wryth answered him, “Poison. It took more than you would imagine.”
Mikaen stepped nearer. “Can you control it?”
“Soon,” Wryth whispered longingly, unable to hide his raw desire.
Skerren’s discovery might hold the promise to track any bronze artifacts, but Wryth now followed in the footsteps of Vythaas, the brother who rightly feared the Klashean Vyk dyre Rha. Wryth’s labors were intended to purge that threat, to forge a weapon against her, to plant a seed of corruption in her very garden.
The chains thrashed and clanged in front of them.
He stared across at the large bat, with its wings wrapped in leather, its body subdued with steel—but what truly bound it was copper.
From its shaved skull, a score of bright needles stuck out, suffused with the alchymies extracted from Vythaas’s journals.
Wryth stared silently at the creature. Soon you will be mine.
Dark eyes glared at him, challenging him. It opened its jaws and screamed savagely, madly, at the world.
Wryth smiled at that song, one of pure hatred.
Yes, that’s a good place to start.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It has been well over a decade since I last forged a path across a fantasy landscape, so each step along this new journey has been tentative. Before starting this adventure, I looked for trail markers left behind by writers I had admired while growing up: Anne McCaffrey, Terry Brooks, Stephen R. Donaldson, Robert Jordan, Roger Zelazny, Gene Wolfe, Robin Hobb, Edgar Rice Burroughs, J. R. R. Tolkien, George R. R. Martin, and countless others. I also took note of the impressive new paths being created by authors today: Naomi Novik, Patrick Rothfuss, Brandon Sanderson, Brent Weeks, and N. K. Jemisin. I also leaned on the shoulders of a bevy of writers who have stood at my side for decades, who have traveled with me in the past to the lands of Alasea and Myrillia, and who helped me to polish this first entry into a new world: Chris Crowe, Lee Garrett, Matt Bishop, Matt Orr, Leonard Little, Judy Prey, Steve Prey, Caroline Williams, Sadie Davenport, Sally Ann Barnes, Denny Grayson, and Lisa Goldkuhl.
Of special acknowledgment, I must cast a sweeping bow of thanks to the cartographer who crafted this world’s first map, Soraya Corcoran. Her work can be found at sorayacorcoran.com. And, of course, I can’t sing the praises loud or long enough to encompass my appreciation for Danea Fidler, the artist who sketched the handsome creatures found throughout the pages of this book. To view more of her skill, do visit her site: daneafidler.com.
On the production side of this creation, I wanted to thank David Sylvian for all his hard work and dedication in the digital sphere.
Lastly and most importantly, none of this would have happened without an astounding team of industry professionals. To everyone at Tor Books—especially Fritz Foy and publisher extraordinaire, Devi Pillai, thank you for taking a chance at opening this new chapter in my career. Additionally, no book would shine as well without a skilled team behind its marketing and publicity, so I was blessed by the talents of Lucille Rettino, Eileen Lawrence, Stephanie Sarabian, Caroline Perny, Sarah Reidy, Renata Sweeney, and Michelle Foytek. And a big thanks to the team who made this book look its very best: Greg Collins, Peter Lutjen, Steven Bucsok, and Rafal Gibek. Of course, a special acknowledgment must go to the editor who held my feet to the fire and pushed me to bring this story into its best and fullest light—a HUGE thanks to William Hinton. Plus, to those who furthered his efforts—editorial assistant Oliver Dougherty, copy editor Sona Vogel, and two astute authenticity readers, Dominic Bradley and Elsa Sjunneson—a big thanks for all your painstaking work and expertise.
And as always, a big shout-out to my agents, Russ Galen and Danny Baror （along with his daughter Heather Baror）。 I wouldn’t be the author I am today without such an enthusiastic set of cheerleaders and friends at my back.
Finally, I must stress that any and all errors of fact or detail in this book fall squarely on my own shoulders.