The Watcher blew high above mountain peaks shining white with snow and swirled down between them. Vespinarr lay spread across the plateau beneath, ringed by snow-capped stone, the bright gleam of the Yalun Zarang river running through it, the roiling waters of the Jokun not far away. The city glittered silver and gold under the clear blue sky, while the land between the two rivers was threaded with silver strands through green fields dappled with bright yellows and brilliant blue. The Elemental Men had come late to Vespinarr when perhaps they should have turned to it first. They'd done what they'd done everywhere, destroyed and desecrated the city's sacred sites, culled its priests and sorcerers. But here more than anywhere else the old ways still survived in secret.
He circled the Kabulingnor Palace, whose shining towers of gold and glass were the highest in the world and could be seen from a hundred miles away, whose vast yellow walls sprawled like cliffs across the might of Mazanda's Peak, Sea Lord Shonda's colossal declaration of the city's power. He soared lower in arcs around the crags and bluffs, past two massive floating cargo sleds made of gold-glass, laden with crates and sacks and pens full of animals, slowly riding the air from the city below to the mountain-top palace; and smaller sleds too, moving through the sky, carrying just one man or two, messengers or guests not worthy of a glasship but in too much haste for the long winding mountain road. Then lower still to the tiers and scattered pavilions of the Visonda Palace at the mountain's feet, where a legion of t'varrs and kwens saw to it that the heart of the city kept up its merciless beat.
There, in a quiet place, he became a man once more, hidden deep in shadows where no one would see. There were reasons today for stealth.
Below the Visonda stood the Azahl Pillar. It had come from somewhere much deeper in the Konsidar, moved here long before there were such things as Elemental Men. He stopped in front of it as he always did. It had grace. The white stone was flawless, inscribed to an unnamed general, an account of his services to the forgotten king of a nameless realm, and ringed with symbols no one had ever deciphered. It belonged to the time before the Splintering, yet the stone hadn't aged. The Watcher ran a hand over it. Its edges were as sharp as they ever were, as though they'd been carved that very morning. The moon sorcerers belonged to that age. They'd seen the Splintering with their own eyes. On the beach they'd shown it to him because, beneath every other purpose, what an Elemental Man was for, what had brought them into life so long ago, was the fear that it might happen again and the resolve that it should not. It was why they did what they did, why they cast away every trace of the old gods, killing them down to the deepest roots, why they learned to hunt and kill sorcerers from any and every world.
Beyond the pillar he walked through a leafy willow-shaded park and into the narrow bustling streets of the Harub, full of noise and colour. Slaves in white and Taiytakei in their feathered rainbow robes hurried past, throwing glances of alarm as they saw him. Pictures, statues and engravings of dragons surrounded him, some old and worn in faded stone, others gaudy and red in bright fresh paint. The dragons made him smile. The Vespinese claimed that dragons had once lived in the Konsidar, long ago. A few even claimed they were still there, deep under the earth in some strange harmony with the Righteous Ones in their chthonian domain. Dragons were the symbol of the mountain city — three of them intertwined with a lion — and that was why he smiled, for the dragons of Vespinarr were myths and stories, yet follow the Yalun Zarang and the Jokun out of the mountains and the Lair of Samim was right there in front of you, not so far away at all. Old stories were one thing, nice and safe. He wondered how the Vespinese would feel when they had real dragons on their doorstep again.
Sea Lord Quai'Shu was in debt up to his eyes with the lords of Vespinarr. The Watcher knew he was meant neither to know nor care but they were a part of this somehow. They were not to be trusted.
He reached the Sun and Moon Temple with its gilded pagoda tower-tops and stopped, looking up at the many dark arches that led inside. Here was how Vespinarr quietly defied the Elemental Men. When they'd come to the city in force to throw down the abomination that was Abraxi the sorceress, the temple had burned amid riot and mayhem. The Elemental Men had forbidden it to be rebuilt, as they forbade all temples to the old gods, and so the Vespinese had built a parliament of sorts in its place, though strikingly similar, and filled it with the kwens and t'varrs and hsians who kept the city in motion. A hundred years later they'd built the Kabulingnor with their endless silver and the sea lords had moved to the top of the Silver Mountain, to Mazanda's Peak. The t'varrs and kwens and hsians had moved in turn into the massive space of the Visonda and left the old temple empty, and now here it was: brazenly dedicated to the sun and the moon. Oh the Vespinese were careful. They made no reference to the rituals of the old gods and never named them, but there were chants at dawn and dusk and it was an open secret that those who came sent prayers and gifts to the ancient forbidden divinities.
Seventeen arches led into the temple and from the outside each was the same. Beyond lay a maze of tiny passages and nooks and shrines reached in different ways. The Watcher chose the central arch. Words were inscribed on it, innocuous and tucked away almost as though they were meant not to be seen but they were telling: The foundations here lie deep, pinned over the heart of the earth goddess by Seturakah, greatest of the silver kings and conqueror of Xibaiya. He walked beneath the words and chose a tiny winding flight of steps down into the earth. As the passage fell into darkness he became the stuff of shadow.
Uneasy things shifted here, but Elemental Men were killers of sorcerers. When abominations like Abraxi and the Crimson Sunburst and Ren Shaha rose, the Elemental Men excised them from the world. It was a long time since the Taiytakei had seen such a creature among their own but abominations grew like weeds in the Dominion of the Sun King and now in Aria too. Wherever their power seemed too great, they were removed with care and precision and with a deal of time and thought. Sorcerers rarely died easily. Second chances were not sought.
When the dragon-queen comes. .
. . so the tipping point. .
In Vespinarr he'd found his first clues. It had taken years but there was some sort of sorcerer here. A pale-skinned slave who dressed in grey and had a talent for speaking with the dead, a talent he sold for silver and jade. Subtle in his ways, harmless and leaving barely a ripple in his passing. The Watcher would never have found his scent if he hadn't already been searching for it.
The grey dead ones are coming. .
They are making something. .
In the passages beneath the old temple the air smelled a little of fish. Odd, he thought, for the mountains. The smell grew stronger. The passage was dark and narrow, lit now by a scattering of dim candles. He was deep beneath the streets and yet more steps took him further down. He let the candles lead him until he found what he sought: a dead-end room, round and claustrophobic with a roof that was low and a hole bored into the floor, a shaft that sank perhaps for ever. More candles were set into scores of nooks in the wall. The smell of old fish was strong now. Facing the entrance with eyes closed, a man sat beside the shaft. He was dressed in grey and the Watcher knew he'd found one of those he sought: the grey dead. He wondered what would be the surest way to kill him: sever his head? Bleed him out? Cut out his heart? Let flames consume him? Sorcerers had survived all those things, but this one needed more than killing. This one needed to speak. He needed not to run, and so he needed to not know what it was that he faced.