"About time someone recognized my great wisdom." Blays eyed the other Jesselmen, then put away his swords. He met eyes with Dasya. "Do you know where the axe of Gashen is?"

  The warrior narrowed his eyes, then shook his head. "No, godlander."

  Blays lowered his chin, thinking over his one remaining question. "Do you know who might know where it is?"

  "I know of no living man who knows that."

  "Ah. Well, that's all we came here to ask. So it seems to me there's two things we can do from here. We can shake hands and go our separate still-alive ways. Or we can pick up where we left off. I have to warn you, though, we were doing our best not to kill you."

  Dasya straightened in the saddle, holding his right arm at an angle from his side. He gazed across his men, considering what order to give them.

  He turned back to Blays and grinned. "You have right spirit. You can leave. But you will not come back."

  "But I'll miss your hospitality so much. Now where did my horse go?"

  He kept one eye on the Jessel as he moved to fetch his mount. Dante moved to one of the men Blays had gored, who'd looked plenty dead a minute ago, but was now doing some twitching and half-conscious moaning. Dante drew a handful of nether, about to apply it to the man's gory chest wound.

  Dasya jumped down from his horse. "Stop what you are doing!"

  "I'm not going to hurt him," Dante said. "I'm trying to heal him."

  "That is why I say do not touch him!"

  Dante squinted. "Do you see all that blood there? You may not be a trained physician, but he needs that inside him."

  "Then he will die. But if his spirit is strong, he will not. Why are you godlanders so afraid to pass into the afterlife your own masters created for you?"

  "We're not 'godlanders.'"

  Dasya snorted. "Well you're not one of us. What else is left?"

  "That's what I tried to tell you earlier," Neve said. "These two aren't from any of the Realms. They're from the Fallen Land."

  The warrior swung up his head. "What?"

  "They're not your enemy. In fact, you have enemies in common."

  "How is that so?"

  "There's no point," Dante said. "We came here to find the axe. We have to keep searching for it within the valley, but you have my word we won't trouble you."

  "Your word?" Dasya spoke this like it was holy, but then gave a hard shake of his head. "No. You came to my land. I will know why."

  "Again, there's no—"

  Blays waved a hand. "Oh, what's it matter what you tell him? Do you really think these skull-worshipping nomads are about to sell us out to Taim?"

  Dante spent a moment determining what exactly he could divulge. "An ancient sorcerer has returned to our lands. He's wildly dangerous. He's already brought down two peoples and he intends to destroy all the others as well. As it is, we can't stop him. The only thing that might be able to stop him is the Spear of Stars. We came here to win it from the gods—but they're refusing to let us try. We have reason to believe that retrieving Gashen's axe will change that. That's what's brought us to your lands."

  Dasya's eyes were nearly as pale as the White Lich's and as he listened to this they stayed as flat as a pond. "These are lies. God-tricks. You're a pawn of Gashen sent here to fetch his precious axe."

  Dante nodded to Blays. "Show him the shard."

  Blays shrugged off the pack he'd been carrying it in ever since acquiring it. He removed a cloth bundle and carefully unwrapped it—revealing the pearly purity of the third of the blade.

  Dasya leaned over it, its celestial lights reflecting in his eyes. "How did you get this?"

  Blays picked up the piece for a better look. "I beat Carvahal in a fight."

  "You claim you battled Carvahal? And won?"

  "Well, it was a duel. There were rules and things. Otherwise he probably would have had a better chance against me."

  The warrior swung his head toward Neve. "Is this true?"

  She tilted back her head and set her hand to the base of her throat. "Cut me dead if it isn't."

  Dasya gazed at the ground, heavy brow wrinkled in thought. "I feel there is something wrong about you. Something that can best be cured by the blade of an axe." He grinned at his men. "But if you can cause this much trouble for the gods, then I will be happy to turn your wrongness against them instead."

  ~

  Dasya and the Jesselmen led them deeper into the Red Valley.

  After a few minutes, Dante leaned closer to Neve. "I get why Dasya agreed to help us: the gods have been rude to his people, so he and his people are inclined to be rude to the gods, and useful to anyone who means to do likewise. But why did he call his warriors off Blays?"

  "You heard what Dasya said," she said. "Blays showed good spirit."

  "By killing Dasya's countrymen. Typically, that's the sort of thing that makes you want to kill your enemy more."

  "There's nothing more important to the ramna than right spirit. Along with their horses and cattle, that's all they have."

  During the skirmish, there had looked to be no more than fifty Jessel riders. As it turned out, there were in fact several hundred of them concealed in the woods. As they rode on to their unknown destination—Dasya had refused to answer where they were going—some bled away from the main group, either to tend to temporary encampments of well-insulated tents, or just to roam about as they would. Nearly every one of them carried a bull's horn decorated with personalized glyphs.

  "I feel like I've asked this a dozen times since entering the Realm," Blays said, "but it's a really good question, so I'm going to keep asking it."

  Dante glanced toward Dasya. "Could this be a trap?"

  "That's the one."

  Neve waved off a fly that wouldn't quit dogging her. "Does it feel like one?"

  "Not really," Blays said. "But a good trap never feels like one, either."

  "In my experience, most aren't designed that way from the start. Most traps happen when you want something so bad that you'll ignore every sign of doubt or danger."

  "Ah, so we're screwed then."

  "In your experience," Dante said. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

  Neve smiled. "Older than I look."

  She wouldn't say more.

  Dasya brought them along a ridge overlooking a small valley. Riders grazed their horses below. They were not Jessel. The two groups shouted insults and jibes at each other, and one of the Jessel went so far as to stand in the saddle and moon the second band. Dante drew the nether to him, but neither group seemed interested in an actual fight. If anything, the shouting seemed almost ritualized.

  They left the valley behind and came to an open plateau. Dasya surveyed it, then led them across it at a quick trot.

  Whatever danger he was expecting didn't manifest, however, and once they were a short ways into the woods on the other side, he ordered a short break. Just as Dante decided it was time to get some answers from the commander, Dasya shouted them onward again.

  Dante trotted over to him anyway, ignoring the hard looks of the warriors at the commander's side, as the warriors appeared stern even when they were waving their naked asses at someone. Dasya glanced at him, but said nothing.

  "Hello," Dante said. "Can I ask where we're going?"

  "Why ask if you have permission to ask a thing? It's cowardly."

  "Other people—less enlightened than yourselves, to be sure—sometimes consider it polite."

  "These others are cowards. For you've now already asked the thing. Your words just make it pretend that you haven't."

  Dante bit his tongue. "So where are we going?"

  "To speak with Sallen. If I am able."

  "Sallen? But he's dead."

  Dasya's voice plummeted to a low growl. "Are you calling me a liar?"

  "You? Not at all. On our way here, we spoke to another ranger. He claimed Sallen died years ago."

  "But I already told your friend that I know no living man who knows where the axe might lie."

  Feeling like the wrong word might provoke a sudden flurry of arrows and spears, Dante took a moment to think this through. "Sallen is dead. But you're going to speak to him despite his regrettable condition."

  Dasya nodded, mollified. "If I am able."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "It's none of your business, outlander."

  "Can I—" Dante cut himself short. "How did Sallen come by Gashen's axe in the first place?"

  "He stole it from the bastard Carvahal."

  "That's what Carvahal said, although in slightly different terms. I was wondering about the specifics."

  He didn't really expect an answer, at least not a useful one, but Dasya cleared his throat, uttered a few words under his breath, and launched into a story about how Sallen, Prince of the Jessel, came to learn that Carvahal had stolen the axe in secret from Gashen. Dasya's words sounded almost like poetry, or perhaps more like a chant: Dante was almost certain that, rather than retelling the gist of a story he'd heard elsewhere, Dasya was reciting a precise version of the tale he'd committed to memory.

  According to this story, Sallen, being among the cleverest of their people to ever ride through the grass, immediately saw an opportunity to put this knowledge to use. He schemed to take the axe, prove that Carvahal was the thief, and therefore stir up trouble between the two gods. With the way Gashen loved his axe, Sallen hoped it would be enough to provoke him to declare war on Carvahal, a conflict that the Jessel and other ramna could exploit to raid or even invade the gods' kingdoms.

  Sallen knew that Carvahal was too good at thieving to be stolen from himself. At least not within his own palace, which was where he was keeping the axe. So Sallen set in motion a plot to convince Carvahal that Gashen already knew that Carvahal had the axe, and was coming to get it back. Thinking himself clever, Carvahal had the axe sent away from his palace, ordering it be taken to a set of catacombs beneath an ancient monastery he assumed no one knew about.

  Sallen knew all about it, though, and personally led a daring raid on the axe's handlers, slaying them and taking the axe back with him to the Red Valley. He was thus positioned to turn the gods against each other—but Carvahal was just as savvy as everyone said, and had placed an enchantment on the axe allowing him to see who had taken it from him. Before Gashen arrived, he came up with a way to blame the original theft on Sallen, which was rather easy to do now that the axe was in Sallen's hands.

  But there was still no guarantee Gashen would buy it. Or he might decide they were both lying and in need of punishment. After a great deal of threats to Sallen, and with Gashen mere hours away, Carvahal offered to let Sallen keep the axe as long as Sallen quit using it to scheme against him. Sallen suspected an ulterior motive, but also recognized two things: first, he could use the axe to smite his foes. And second, it wasn't the best thing in the world to have a god for a personal enemy. He agreed to the deal.

  "For once, Carvahal was good for his word," Dasya said. "The conflict was forgotten. Sallen kept the axe, and used it to raid and destroy other ramna. But one day, years later, it was lost."

  "How?"

  "That is what we go to find out."

  ~

  They were soon blindfolded. Dante was tempted to cheat by trying to reanimate a new set of scouts, but resisted the urge, keeping his senses in the nether instead. This provided quite the distraction: the nether continued to feel more intense than it did in his own world, particularly when he looked at it closely. At the same time, whatever the differences, they were too subtle for him to tease out the details or causes.

  He could tell when they entered another clearing by the shift in sound from the rustle of leaves to the hiss of grass, and also by the way the sun smelled on that grass. Then came shade, but not the kind cast by trees. Like that of city buildings, although he didn't think there were any buildings here, so more likely canyon walls. The Jessel traveled without the need for any words at all, like they weren't even human, but a stream of water following the natural contours of the land.

  Again without the need for words, the band came to a stop. Hooves shuffled next to Dante; the blindfold was lifted from his eyes. He squinted against the sudden light, although it wasn't very bright at all.

  "Please tell me you haven't taken us to yet another world," Blays said.

  "We remain in the Red Valley," Dasya said. "But here is where the beyond comes closest to us."

  Massive bones rose from the red dirt like curved pillars, bending together thirty feet above them. They ran a hundred feet or more from front to back and their high arches looked like nothing less than the ceiling of a cathedral. Dante's first instinct was that it was a thing like Barden, bones grown into a shape all unnatural for them—but other than their size, the anatomy of these bones was natural.

  They stood inside the skeleton of the largest animal he had ever seen.

  Neve turned in a circle, head tipped back at the "ceiling." "I don't like this place."

  "This is what you asked for." Dasya got down from his horse.

  Dante didn't know Dasya's official rank, but he was at the very least a soldier in possession of his own horse, and was likely a lieutenant or even a chieftain of some kind. In Narashtovik, Mallon, and nearly every other land Dante had ever seen, a groom or servant would have hurried up to lead the beast away and tend to it while its master conducted his lordly business. But there seemed to be none of that here; Dasya, despite his authority, was expected to take care of his horse by himself.

  Could it be that no one was acting as his squire because every ramna man was a warrior? The thought seemed impossible: most men weren't born soldiers, and only some fraction more could be trained into it. Beyond that, if every man and even some of the women were warriors, how did they get anything else done?

  Unless, of course, warring was all the ramna did.

  Beyond the bones, canyon walls rose tight around them, with thick hedges and trees lining the upper ledges, casting the canyon in shadow. There was a sort of "cave" at the far end of the skeletal cathedral, which was of course the inside of the dead beast's skull. Its clenched teeth were as long as Dante's arm.

  The floor of the skull was set with squat, low stone cylinders arranged in a circle. Dante could tell at a glance there were thirteen of them rather than the twelve used to represent the Celeset. They were carved with glyphs and scenes of battle. A wider stone was set in the center of the circle, its top shallowly concave.

  Dasya turned and gazed across his men. "We need an eye."

  Barely a blink of silence passed before one of the warriors stepped forward. There was gray at his temples and across most of his beard. "I will give it."

  "Branya?"

  "I'm growing old, aren't I? Too old for battle."

  "You are far from too old. You could fight for centuries more."

  The graying warrior shook his head. "It's not time that has made me too old. It's the wounds that come from time."

  "Your hip. The blow you took last winter."

  Branya nodded. "It never fully healed. And it is only one of many in my many years. I've done my best to hide my weakness, but in the forge of battle, all weakness is exposed. If I fight much longer, I'll get one of you killed—or much more than one. Let me make this last offering, then leave to tend to the cattle instead."

  The corners of Dasya's eyes crinkled in pain, but he nodded. "Your arms weaken. But your wisdom strengthens. After this, you may retire. Not to become a shepherd of cattle—but to become a shepherd to my warriors, who will need your knowledge and your counsel."

  There was a rumble of approval from across the band. Branya smiled, if grimly, and dropped to one knee beside the stone bowl. Dasya drew a short, thin knife, braced Branya's head with his other hand, and leveled the knife in front of the older man's left eye.

  Dante's eyes widened. "What are you doing?"

  Dasya didn't look his way. "What you requested of us."

  "That's his eye!"

  "The cost of speech is sight. This is the only way we can speak to the last of our people who saw Gashen's axe."

  Of all the horrific injuries a person could suffer, total eyeball trauma was among Dante's most hated to witness, and he would have turned away if not for his certainty the Jessel would judge him for doing so. Dasya was quick, though, mercifully quick, and soon cast the goop upon the carved stones.

  He turned back to Branya, setting his hand on the man's shoulder and touching their foreheads together. "Thank you, brother."

  Branya nodded, but he was deathly pale and breathing so fast Dante suspected he was moments from passing out.

  Dante gestured to the man's bloody face. "Can I at least heal him?"

  Dasya straightened. "Pain is meant to be endured. But Branya offered his sacrifice believing there would be no salve to his pain. Therefore his will was true. You may heal him."

  Branya held up a bloody hand as if to ward Dante off, but Dante ignored this. He summoned the nether and lifted his hand to the warrior's face. Shadows swooped and danced around the gruesome wound.

  The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Fast as a striking snake, Branya grabbed Dante's wrist. "We've given blood for you. The bond is made. Dare to break it, and your own blood will be cursed."

  Dante continued his work. "If you've turned your back on the gods, who do you expect to curse me?"

  "Your adsal."

  "My what?"

  Branya stormed to his feet. "Your adsal!"

  Dante cocked his head, utterly clueless as to why the warrior was so worked up and whether to pursue it.

  Neve stepped in beside him. "Your adsal. Your soul-beyond-self."

  "Ohh, my adsal."

  After another moment's thought, he was actually quite curious if this was a reference to the trace and remnant, but Dasya was beginning a ritual of some kind, which he did not want to miss. To his surprise, nether was streaking toward the sacrificial eye in the stone bowl. Yet Dasya didn't appear to be summoning or shaping it in any way. At least not through any skill Dante was aware of. Instead he was chanting, a stream of words that rose and fell in pitch, rhythmic and mesmerizing, and though Dante had understood the language wherever he'd traveled within the Realm of Nine Kings, Dasya's words seemed to slip through Dante's mind like trout through a child's hands.

 

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