Visions and Magic

"Ronan, you are not Dothraki!"

The old warlock had ruined one of the few romantic moments Ronan had been granted lately, so Ronan was in no mood to be gentle.

"Only noticing that now?" he asked. "Feels a little late."

Pyat Pree gave that thin, unpleasant laugh. "Nothing is late. This way, please."

Only then did Ronan notice that the warlocks had surrounded him. There were enough of them to make the air feel colder. A pack of rotten old things, each pretending reverence while greed crawled openly across their faces.

The warlocks were not his only problem. A knot of furious Qartheen merchants and officials had blocked the road as well. Xaro's death had caused no small shock in Qarth.

He had been one of the Thirteen, and in their eyes, offending one of them meant offending the whole circle.

Worse, Ronan had not merely offended him. He had killed him. That could not be ignored, at least not in public. With the warlocks present, however, even the angriest merchant seemed unsure how far he dared go.

Ronan found the scene amusing. "It seems you will not be taking me anywhere."

Pyat did not look offended. He turned to the angry Qartheen and spoke softly. "He will receive the judgment of the Undying Ones inside the House of the Undying. If you still have grievances, settle them after he leaves."

For a moment, the crowd fell silent. Then the silence became agreement. Everyone with sense knew how few men entered the House of the Undying and came out alive.

To let the violent foreigner face the judgment of the Undying Ones was as good as sentencing him to death. If he was already dead in their minds, what else did they need?

Besides, Ronan suspected most of them were not truly grieving Xaro. With one of the Thirteen gone, the feast of Qarth would simply have fewer mouths around it. In a certain sense, Ronan had brought them profit.

What they needed was dignity in public. Seeing Pyat settle the matter so easily left Ronan faintly disappointed. Watching the merchants and warlocks turn on each other would have been more entertaining.

Still, did they truly think he would die merely because he entered the House of the Undying? That remained to be seen.

They walked down the long avenue of the warlocks until the merchants and city guards stopped following. At its end stood the House of the Undying.

From the outside, it looked less like a house than a gray ancient ruin. It was long and low, windowless and towerless, like a great stone serpent coiled among trees with black bark.

The trees were worth noting. Their leaves were a deep, unnatural blue. The Qartheen made Shade of the Evening from them, that dark blue potion the warlocks treated like holy wine.

"Do you have any questions?" Pyat asked.

The warlock's enthusiasm had only grown. He looked at Ronan as though he were not a prisoner, but a treasure being carried home.

Ronan shrugged. "Are you certain this is the House of the Undying? It looks poorer than I expected."

Standing before the cracked old building, Ronan could not help thinking the warlocks might be the poorest people in all Qarth. They did not even have a proper palace. Black plaster had peeled from the walls.

Broken tiles lay near the roofline, and the stone path leading to the entrance had warped until the mortar between its slabs had dried and split.

If the bright gates of Qarth had shown him the city's sunlit face, this was its dark and rotting one.

Pyat's voice cooled. "Great faith has no need of rich ornament." He produced a cup of liquid so blue it was almost black and held it out.

"Do I have to drink it?" Ronan asked.

Pyat smiled with open malice. "Not unless you would rather be torn apart by the people behind you."

"Shade of the Evening?"

Pyat nodded. "You should be grateful you are permitted to enter."

Unlike Ronan, Pyat looked at the cup with reverence. Ronan wasted no more words. He took the Shade of the Evening, drank it in one swallow, and walked into the House of the Undying.

Pyat watched with satisfaction, unable to hide his smile. He believed he would soon gain everything he wanted.

He did not know that the moment the potion entered Ronan's body, a surge of fire burned it away.

Ronan had no intention of letting some warlock's brew take hold of him.

The House of the Undying was called a house, but inside it felt more like a narrow tower. A straight stair rose upward, with doors on both sides standing open. Ronan could see into the rooms easily.

"Undying?" he murmured. "More like a paradise for things that should have rotted."

It was almost exactly what he had imagined. There were no immortals here, only half-dead husks pretending at eternity. Their bodies were broken, their flesh reeked, and the only marvel left to them was the way their exposed hearts still beat.

They shared another trait: every one of them had turned a dark, almost black shade of blue.

Addicts, then. Shade of the Evening had done this to them.

The taste alone had made Ronan want to gag when it touched his throat. He almost admired them for surviving so much of it. Perhaps madness made strange appetites easier to bear.

Room after room held a few of the decaying things, but none of them seemed to be the one he was searching for. He climbed floor after floor until something changed.

A sudden discomfort gripped him. Fire burned through his body, and in a blink he became a man made of flame. No. Not him.

Sunlight. A bright campus. A familiar bell. A silhouette he had never quite forgotten.

Before Ronan could reach for the memory, the world shifted again. Damp stone closed around him. A water prison. A giant serpent. A man in a beret holding a rifle. Then a thunderous blast hurled him into a desert at war.

Cavalry and slaughter. Blood and desire. Day and night turning over his head. A vague figure standing on high walls. A crimson wolf's head. Soldiers stretching farther than the eye could see.

A horn call rang out, and legendary creatures wrapped in suffocating flame appeared. Beautiful women pressed into his arms, their fragrance and shy heat almost real.

Then came shapes of countless people, and among them pale shadows half-seen through snow. Eyes like blue stars stared back, cold and dangerous enough to raise every hair along Ronan's skin.

Nameless fire rose again. This time, he heard screaming clearly. The House of the Undying snapped back into place around him. More of the rotting blue things had gathered nearby, their shapes hideous in the dim light.

Following the screams, Ronan saw Pyat Pree rolling on the ground. Fire covered him from head to foot. No matter how he struggled, the flames would not leave him, not until he had burned black.

The decaying things did not retreat. If anything, they grew more frenzied and threw themselves at Ronan.

Dozens of filthy mouths opened like little demons. Ronan became fire. He moved through them, and every thing that came too close caught flame. Soon the entire House of the Undying was burning clean.

Fire took the Undying Ones. It took the warlocks. Above him, even the sky seemed brighter. For Ronan, however, that was only the beginning.

The city guards reacted quickly. They had seen the House of the Undying burn, and the man meant to die had walked out alive. There would be no avoiding blood now.

For the first time, Ronan understood just how convenient magic could be. Fire gathered in his palm, and a few blazing spheres swept through the squad that had come to investigate.

While the guards burned, Ronan used the gap to leave the avenue of the warlocks.

With luck, distance, and a narrow window of confusion, he slipped past the eyes searching for him and boarded a ship just as it was preparing to sail.

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