Authors: Tim Akers
“What a pleasant surprise,” he whispered. His voice was dry, his throat made rough by the god that had torn its way free from his body.
“Hardly surprising, my lord,” Fianna said quietly.
“It seems you did well.”
“Well enough,” she said. “He was a fragile vessel.”
“Still…” Sacombre leaned back from the bars, seeking some comfort in the straw floor. “You gave him what he needed. Molded what could be shaped.”
“Yes,” the witch answered, smiling grimly in the darkness of the iron-framed wagon. “The hound is ready for his hunt.”
* * *
When night was gone and morning threatened, Malcolm returned to his chambers. His son was gone, and not enough of his wife remained. Tener was fractured. Suhdra was twisted against itself. Sacombre’s words hung in Malcolm’s mind, about the south being split, and the north united. There was so much work to do, and little rest to be had.
He touched flame to his lantern and loosened his armor, his body creaking like a weathered bridge. He, along with most of his men, had taken to wearing some measure of protection at all times, both mundane and holy. The bound icons that hung from his neck clattered as he set them on a night table. The feyiron blade went beside his bed. Malcolm didn’t bother taking off the rest of his clothes—he fell atop the covers and stared at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that didn’t come.
When the servant hammered on his door some interminable time later, Malcolm sighed and stood, with not a moment of rest under his belt. The knocking turned urgent.
“Yes, yes, what is it?” he asked with irritation.
“My lord,” the servant said, coming in. It was one of Jaerdin’s men, filling the role of page when most of the Adair household had fled for fear of inquisition. “You must come immediately.”
“An attack?” Malcolm asked, snatching the sword from his bedside.
“No, my lord. It’s her. She is awake.”
Malcolm stood still for a heartbeat while the information filtered into his brain. His blood leapt. He was about to put away the blade, but thought better of it, then looped the gaggle of holy icons around his neck and rushed out of the room.
Sorcha’s chamber was at the end of a darkened hall. Two guards stood nervously by the door. Malcolm could hear his wife’s voice.
“How long?” he asked.
“Just now. We sent for you right away, my lord.”
“And the priest? Have you sent for a priest?”
The guards looked nervously at one another. They shook their heads. “We weren’t sure we should.”
“No,” Malcolm said. “No. I don’t suppose so.” Cautiously, with sword in hand and holiness on his neck, Malcolm walked into his wife’s room.
Sorcha sat on the bed, propped up on a mountain of silk pillows. The window was blocked by heavy curtains, and there were no lanterns here. The unconscious lady of Houndhallow had shown sensitivity to the light of sun or flame, whimpering in its presence. Yet there was light aplenty in the chamber, flowing from her eyes, her skin, from the cold water that poured through her veins. She was still his wife, just as beautiful, just as fine—but she was strange now, as well.
When Malcolm crept into the chamber, Sorcha turned to him, her eyes the color and transparency of deep pools of clean water. Her hair floated from her head, as if she were drowning, or swimming. Or as if she were water itself. She looked at her husband and smiled.
“Husband,” she said.
“My lady,” he answered. “How are you feeling?”
“Divine,” she answered with a wide smile.
“I’m… I’m glad,” he stammered.
“Malcolm?”
“Yes, love?”
Her eyes turned cold, her features grim. The soft current of her hair became turbulent.
“Where is my son?”
T
HE
P
AGAN
N
IGHT
has been on my mind for a long time. I started sketching the cosmology eight years ago, and wrote my first outline for this series two years after that. It’s been through four complete rewrites and, by my count, an additional six heavy revisions.
Without a doubt, this has been the largest project of my writing career so far, and the most challenging task I have yet completed. The road has been long, but I haven’t walked it alone. This book wouldn’t be in front of you without the tireless support of my wife, Jennifer, the patient guidance of my agent, Joshua, or the perceptive and sometimes backbreaking insights of my editor, Steve. I don’t envy any of these three the task of putting up with a writer like me, but they’ve been heroic in their efforts, and indispensible in their support.
Thank you all.
T
IM
A
KERS WAS
born in deeply rural North Carolina, the only son of a theologian, and the last in a long line of telephony princes, tourist-attraction barons, and gruff Scottish bankers. He moved to Chicago for college, and stayed to pursue his lifelong obsession with apocalyptic winters.
He lives (nay, flourishes) with his brilliant, tolerant, loving wife, and splits his time between pewter miniatures and fountain pens.
Tim is the author of the Burn Cycle (
Dead of Veridon, Heart of Veridon
) from Solaris Books, as well as
The Horns of Ruin
(featuring Eva Forge) published by Pyr Books.
His web site is
http://www.timakers.net/
.
COMING SOON FROM TITAN BOOKS
The land of Tenumbra has fallen into chaos. Heresy has divided the church, bloodshed has divided the land, and betrayal has divided Malcolm Blakley and his son, Ian. As the old faith grows in power and the priests of Heartsbridge fall at each others throats, a new threat grows in the heart of the land. What starts as a fight between families will become a war between gods.
Coming January 2017
TITAN
BOOKS
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