The Shattered Circle

17. The Passing

As Luka's ravings faded into whimpers and his ragged breathing grew shallow, the reality of his death marched into my mind like an unwelcome army. He could not be as easily replaced as most in the King in Black's service. Even Naltheme, prized for arcane knowledge and rare as a diamond in the rough, was ultimately more expendable. The King in Black could find another apprentice, but a shapeshifter with Luka's patience, intuitive shrewdness, and experience was unheard of. He was an aberration among the fangwardens, one of the reasons he was so often resented by the Shadeclaw and other powerful pack leaders. They couldn't get a rise out of him the way they could out of each other, didn't have his savvy with people, and certainly not his subterfuge, a suite of skills he'd elevated to an artform. He was also a powerful ally in the King in Black's court, one who could be relied on to take a long and unselfish view.

Beyond the practicality of it, though, I felt a twinge behind my breastbone. I had laid many, many friends into the grave over the years. My heart had grown largely cold to the grief of death, but I would miss Luka. His cursed blood resisted the unlife granted by our master: his soul and animus were too closely bonded, wrenched into the Beyond by the draw of the chaotic energies that had birthed his condition. His body could be animated like a puppet of flesh if a spellcaster focused on it, but true undeath was impossible without rewriting the Fundamental Laws of magic. Even if the King in Black could make an exception with the power at His disposal, the Laws always reverted after a time to what they had been at the moment of the Apotheosis. It would have been a waste of power to attempt, as sensible as assaulting the tide with a sword.

When the King in Black had killed the god of magic, the Laws had frozen, trapped in that instant. Naturally, the newly ascended god-lich found it fascinating, a problem truly worthy of unlocking...whatever the cost.

He seldom had to pay His prices. They settled on my shoulders instead.

Shira sat silently beside me, brow furrowed as she watched him die. Even as an enemy, she seemed to feel some sympathy for his fevered pain. The last stages of the dreaming death were agony, though not prolonged long. He would likely pass in the next few minutes.

"It's true, then." The floor hadn't creaked to alert me, but the voice was instantly recognizable as a colossal problem.

I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose, ignoring Shira's wide-eyed look of alarm. The last person I wanted to deal with right now was Luka's incendiary daughter. "That entirely depends on what you have heard," I said bluntly, taking a split second to formulate a plan before rising and turning to face her.

Riyd was seldom predictable on a good day. I had no expectation that she would be now, which meant preparing for the worst. However much the fangwarden hated her father's reputation and meddling, she also loved him with a violent protectiveness. "Varys said that he was poisoned." She prowled into the room, golden eyes reflecting in the low light like a wolf's. "That his killer would be close by, watching to ensure he passed."

I made no effort to conceal my contempt for Varys's very poor attempt. "He was poisoned, Riyd. If I had wanted him dead, I would have gutted him like a fish. Besides, he still breathes. Varys can take his insinuation and choke on it."

Riyd's temper flared, nails becoming true claws. The teeth she bared sharpened as her shape began to shift. "As if you could have bested him in a true battle! You're human, Frostborn," she snarled. "Weak."

"And you are Luka's daughter!" I snarled. Instead of retreating or giving ground, I moved directly into Riyd's space. Anything else would tug at her predatory instincts and I wanted her focused entirely on me. "I assume he taught you to mind whose words you trust!"

She was absolutely right: if she shifted forms and struck, my bones would snap like twigs. I wasn't even wearing armor. Riyd was a very real threat, but I was long past the point of seeing death as a thing to fear. My fingers darted up my left sleeve as she grabbed Woe's hilt, forcing me back and depriving me of my feared weapon.