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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 Trudi Canavan

  Author photograph by Paul Ewins

  Cover design by Duncan Spilling_LBBG

  Cover images by Shutterstock

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  Simultaneously published in Great Britain and in the U.S. by Orbit in 2017

  First Edition: September 2017

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  The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017908301

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-20928-1 (hardcover), 978-0-316-32496-0 (ebook)

  E3-20170728-JV-PC

  Contents

  COVER

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PART ONE: TYEN CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART TWO: RIELLE CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  PART THREE: TYEN CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  PART FOUR: RIELLE CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  PART FIVE: TYEN CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  PART SIX: RIELLE CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  PART SEVEN: TYEN CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  PART EIGHT: RIELLE CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  PART NINE: TYEN CHAPTER 21

  PART TEN RIELLE

  TYEN

  RIELLE

  TYEN

  PART ELEVEN RIELLE

  PART TWELVE: EPILOGUE TYEN

  RIELLE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  BY TRUDI CANAVAN

  ORBIT NEWSLETTER

  PART ONE

  TYEN

  CHAPTER 1

  The sound was more felt than heard, a deep concussion that shivered up through the feet and vibrated in the chest. As one, all of the wheelmakers looked up; then, as the sensation faded, they turned to Tyen.

  He glanced from one to the other, a growing, formless dread reflected in their anxious expressions. All were still, so the small movement near the main door to the workshop immediately caught his attention. A human-shaped shadow was taking form, rapidly sharpening and darkening. A woman, her mouth set in a grim line.

  “Claymar Fursa,” he said, and as the others turned to face the sorcerer their expressions changed to respect and they touched two fingers to their heart to acknowledge their leader. Tyen followed suit.

  “Tyen Wheelmaker,” the woman said as she emerged into the world. “The Grand Market has been attacked. We need help.” She looked around. “From all of you.”

  Tyen nodded. “The attackers?”

  “Gone.” She drew a deep breath and let it out, her eyes dark and haunted. “Half of the roof has collapsed. Many are buried.”

  The wheelmakers exchanged horrified glances. Tyen picked up a rag and wiped at the grease on his hands. “We will go immediately.”

  She nodded, then faded from sight.

  “I’ll take you,” Tyen offered. The other wheelmakers moved away from the machines they’d been working on and joined him in the only clear space in the room, the area in front of the main door. Each took hold of another worker; men and women linked by touch.

  “Ready?”

  A murmur of assent followed, then all sucked in a deep breath. Tyen drew magic from far above them, saving what imbued the city for weaker sorcerers with a shorter reach. While Doum was a world rich in magic, and the gap he left would soon be replaced when what was around it flowed in to fill the void, he would hate to be the reason other sorcerers were unable to help at the disaster site.

  As he pushed away from the world, the workshop seemed to be bleached of colour and all sound ceased. He could feel a fresh indentation in the substance of the place between worlds coming from the direction of the Council House, no doubt where Claymar Fursa had pushed through it to reach them. Conscious that he and his employees could only last in between worlds for as long as they could survive without air, he sent them quickly upwards, passing through the ceiling and first floor into a muted blue sky. Looking over Alba, the largest and most famous city of clayworkers in Doum, he sought the familiar arched profile of the Grand Market building.

  When he found it, he paused in shock. Fursa had been understating the damage, or more had occurred since. Only a quarter of the remarkable undulating roof, constructed by cementing together layers of flat bricks, remained.

  He propelled them towards it.

  The Grand Market had been a beautiful building. Inside were stalls selling the best of the city’s wares, attended day and night. Why would anybody try to destroy it? he wondered. Had the attack come from a rival city, or from somewhere outside the world? An attack on the Grand Market was an attack on Alba’s main source of income. It was also an attack on the place he’d invested five cycles in making a new home—a place he loved more than his own home world. Anger stirred within him.

  No doubt the Claymars, elected by the workshop masters of Doum’s cities, knew more. He could seek information by reading their minds, but they, like many peoples of the worlds, outlawed mind reading without permission. He’d made a habit of obeying that law, at the least because it would only take one slip for him to reveal that he had broken it, and the acceptance he had sought would be lost. He might have their respect as a powerful sorcerer and the inventor of the world’s first potting wheels powered by magic, but as an outsider he was still regarded with suspicion.

  The city below flashed by in a blur. The broken edifice enlarged, gaining detail along with proximity. As they neared the ragged, broken walls, a great pile of rubble appeared within the shadows between them. The debris glittered with fragments of shattered glass. A few remnants of the stalls within poked out of the mess, but the wares and occupants were well buried. People were lifting and carrying fragments away. Others lay on the floor among the surviving
stalls, clothes stained with blood, some moving, some not.

  The sight brought unwelcome memories of a collapsing tower and a wave of guilt. Tyen pushed both away. It had been ten cycles since the tragedy of Spirecastle’s collapse—cycles being a substitute “year” measurement sorcerers and inter-world traders used, since no worlds had years that exactly matched—but he still recalled it clearly. The determination to assist hardened in him. This time I can do something to help, he told himself. If they’ll let me.

  He took his workers downwards, seeking a safe place to arrive. He decided against bringing them back into the world inside the building, in case the remaining section of roof fell. Fursa did say we were the nearest sorcerers, so there may not be many others there yet. I had better shield everyone in case the walls collapse outward. The plaza outside the building was crowded with onlookers. Helpers were rushing out of the building, tossing debris onto steadily growing piles, then hurrying back in. With no clear space to arrive in close by, he chose an area twenty paces away and waited for the people standing there to notice and move out of the way.

  It did not take long. Seeing the partly transparent group, the onlookers hastily shuffled aside. When the space was clear, Tyen brought his workers back into the world. All sucked in the dry, dusty air and began to cough. Some pressed hands to their faces as the physical manifestation of emotions, absent between worlds, suddenly returned. But as they drew deep breaths to recover from the journey, their shoulders straightened, and the hands that had gripped a neighbour in order to be carried along with Tyen now patted and squeezed in reassurance and support.

  “Let’s see what we can do,” Tyen said, and started towards the building.

  As they entered, he looked up at the remaining ceiling. Only one of the five tall central columns remained. He drew magic and stilled the air above his workers to form a shield—perhaps a little too strongly, as a chill immediately set the air misting.

  “No need for that, Tyen Wheelmaker,” a man said from somewhere to the right. “We’re holding the roof up.”

  Tyen sought out the speaker. A familiar old man appeared, weaving through the workers.

  “Master Glazer Rayf.” Tyen released the air. “What can we do?”

  “Do any of you have healing skills?” Rayf asked.

  The workers exchanged glances, most shaking their heads.

  “I know a little,” one of the younger men said. “No healing magic—just bandages and stitches.”

  “I spent a little time in Faurio in training,” Tyen said. Until a former rebel recognised me, he added silently, and it was either kill him or leave. “I picked up a few basics.”

  Rayf’s gaze moved to Tyen and an eyebrow rose. “You can heal with magic?”

  Tyen shook his head. “Only the ageless can do that.”

  The old man’s gaze sharpened at that piece of information about Tyen. No doubt he’d wondered if the powerful otherworlder would age—or rather, what it would mean for Doum if he didn’t. His gaze flickered past Tyen’s shoulder and he frowned. Stepping a little closer to Tyen, he spoke in a low voice. “Look into my mind,” he invited.

  Tyen did, and read alarm and an image of the stalls behind him. Behind a line of rubble-removers, between pots stacked up in a surviving stall, was a deeper shadow. Within that gleamed a pair of eyes, fixed on the great pile of rubble.

  Then Rayf’s gaze returned to Tyen’s face.

  “I can’t read his mind. Who is he?” he hissed.

  Stretching his senses behind, Tyen sought the owner. He scowled as he found the man’s mind.

  This is going to take hours, the stranger thought. The longer I stay, the greater the chance someone will find me. Why should I risk being taken prisoner when it wasn’t me who commissioned the attack on this place? If a Claymar has died, the Emperor won’t negotiate for my return. He’ll abandon me.

  “His name is Axavar,” Tyen murmured. “He’s from Murai. A sorcerer of the School of Sorcery.”

  “Was he one of those who did this?”

  Tyen nodded. “Set to watch and make sure he and the other attackers haven’t killed any Claymars. The Emperor will only take action against those who commissioned the attack if one of our leaders has died.”

  Rayf’s eyes narrowed. “Who did?”

  “He suspects the Muraian merchants.”

  A hiss escaped the old man. “Punishing us for setting a minimum price, no doubt. Which merchants?”

  “He’s not thinking about anyone in particular. He’s an underling. Too young to have gained any authority.”

  And not at all bothered by what he and his people had done here. Tyen shook his head. It was unbelievably callous to kill people for refusing to sell their goods at too low a price to survive on. If Axavar’s thoughts were correct, the merchants of Murai had reasoned that their own survival depended on being able to on sell the goods of Doum at a reasonable profit—though Tyen suspected “survival” did not mean they faced starvation, but a reduction in their great wealth.

  “What do you want me to do?” Tyen asked.

  Rayf hesitated, his face tight with indecision; then as someone called his name, he brightened a little. They both turned to see several red-robed men and women striding into the building, one heading for Rayf while the rest spread out towards the injured.

  “Ah, good. The Payr healers are here.” The old man turned back to Tyen. “Follow him when he leaves. Find out who else is responsible, and if the Emperor is behind it.”

  Tyen nodded. He drew a deep breath, then shoved himself out of the world, stopping when he could barely make out his position in relation to the room. He would have appeared to vanish, unless someone looked closely. Moving in a wide curve, he approached the Muraian from behind.

  At the last moment, the man turned and saw Tyen. And fled, flashing into the place between and streaking away.

  Tyen gave chase.

  The ruined Grand Market faded from sight. The substance of the place between roiled on either side of Axavar’s fresh path. As Tyen began to gain on him, the man increased his speed. Tyen could have caught up, but he held back and let the man widen the gap between them. Better to let Axavar think he’d lost Tyen so he’d go straight to his destination.

  Which was most likely the rest of the sorcerers who had attacked the market. Tyen would have to approach carefully, keeping out of sight. It was unlikely a single Muraian sorcerer was strong enough to be a threat to Tyen, but he could not guess how powerful they might be together. He also needed to avoid giving them the impression he was the beginning of a counter-attack from Doum, or some might return to Alba and attack it again.

  Once past the midpoint between worlds, where nothing was visible, shadows slowly emerged from the whiteness. A city spread below them, growing rapidly more distinct. It lay at the bottom of a cliff face over which a great waterfall tumbled, covering the city in a ceaseless mist of spray. The river at its base divided the city, but the two halves were stitched together by a succession of graceful bridges.

  This was Glaemar, the capital of the most powerful country in Murai and home of the Emperor, who ruled all but a few distant lands too poor to tempt a conquest. Tyen had visited it around the time he’d settled in Doum, curious to see the wealthy and powerful neighbour and main customer of the potters’ wares. While Glaemar’s climate was cooler than Alba’s, the culture was more refined—and less friendly. Wealth and power resided in hereditary lines and the poor were kept in perpetual bondage. Sorcerous ability offered only limited freedom from rigid class expectations.

  It reminded him too much of where he had come from, of the great Leratian empire that had conquered and colonised most of his world—though the city of Beltonia, with its advanced sewage system, was considerably less smelly than Glaemar’s sluggish covered ditches.

  Axavar plunged towards his home world, only slowing at the last moment to alter his position within it. Tyen continued to follow at a distance, knowing the other’s lesser magical ability meant
he’d have more trouble seeing others in the place between. Finally Axavar dove towards a large building with a square inner courtyard.

  Tyen remained high enough above the city that he would be only a speck to people below. Even so, he created a globe of stilled air around him as he emerged into the world, both to hold him in place and to shield him. He waited, and soon Axavar’s mind became readable as he arrived in the world.

  He’d arrived in the School of Sorcery. Footsteps sounded from all directions as other sorcerers responded to his call. Faces appeared in his mind as men and women peered down from balconies. More strode out from archways below them. All stared as Axavar babbled an explanation and warning.

  A sorcerer had seen him, he told them. Might have followed him. Might arrive here at any moment.

  Axavar sensed radiating lines of darkness flare around the sorcerers as they drew in magic in readiness to deal with a possible intruder. But Tyen had no intention of confronting them. Instead, he searched their minds. He learned that Master Rayf had been right. When the Claymars of Doum had set minimum prices, the Muraian merchants had decided to punish them, hiring five graduates from the Glaemar School of Sorcery to travel to Alba and destroy the Grand Market.

  They knew the Emperor would punish them if any of Doum’s leaders died. Muraians did not consider the deaths of the men, women and children working in the stalls important because in their culture shopkeepers were of low status. Only people of authority mattered. But in Doum, trade was controlled by the families of the potmakers, brickmakers, tilemakers and other producers—including relatives of the Claymars. Family members who didn’t have artistic talent but had skill with numbers and negotiation were as valuable as creators, since they freed the artisans to concentrate on their work.

  Axavar’s colleagues were looking at the head of the School of Sorcery, a woman named Oerith. She doubted a single Doumian sorcerer would dare attack the school. However, they would seek information, and once they knew why the Grand Market had been attacked they might return to take revenge on the merchants, or even attack the Emperor. The school would be blamed for Axavar revealing himself. Unless she acted quickly to warn everyone. The names of the particular merchants behind the attack had never been revealed to the school, having been communicated through an intermediary, but the Emperor probably knew them, or would soon when the news reached him. She gave orders for the school to post a guard and be ready to defend itself, then pushed out of the world, her mind going silent.