Fortney strode down the hall of the temple with her back straight and her shoulders swinging with easy grace. The hallway was decorated with bas-relief sculptures carved into the sandstone walls. They depicted the Catastrophes of Namar?n, picked out in lurid detail.

  Here was the Falling of the Sun, with rows and rows of tiny men writhing beneath a fat star. Further down was the Corrupted Fester, a great worm erupting from the ground with hundreds of human arms snatching at the fleeing crowds. On the other side of the hall was a depiction of the legendary Collapsed City, a great urban center that had been swallowed by an enormous sinkhole.

  Fortney set her jaw. The sanat-magi did love their cautionary tales.

  "You are tense," Kadir said as he walked deferentially behind her, his eyes endlessly picking across their surroundings. "Do you sense something?"

  She forced out a sharp sigh.

  "No, Kadir. It is nothing. I am... concerned about today's lesson."

  Kadir was silent for a bit as they continued down the long hallway. The light from the distant entrance faded as they walked further in. The oil lamps arrayed down the length of the hall gave the only light. The steady streams of flame flickered and whispered as they passed.

  "Do the sanat-magi mistreat you, Shazedah?" he asked quietly, his voice low and threatening.

  She glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow.

  "Of course not," she said, flexing one fist thoughtfully. "I would have handled it, otherwise." She pursed her lips in thought. "Now that I am of age, the sanat-magi are teaching me the secrets of the Powers. The secrets make me uncomfortable."

  "The wisdom of the Shazedah will only grow with her knowledge of the mysteries of Namar?n."

  "I know." She frowned. "There is no power I can use, except through the sanat-magi. Nonetheless, their capabilities are unsettling."

  "These mysteries are not meant for my ears, Shazedah," Kadir said.

  Fortney nodded shortly and picked up her pace. "Come, then, Kadir. Sooner begun is sooner done."

  They arrived at the entrance to the temple proper. Two acolytes flanked the heavy sandstone arch, wreathed in shadow.

  "The Princess comes," one intoned.

  "I am here for my lessons with Zamiran sanat-magi," she said.

  The acolytes both bowed deeply, and one scuttled inside. Soon, Zamiran, her tutor-priest, emerged. His forehead bore the red tattoo of a healer, a semicircle like a hill.

  "Come," he said, beckoning to Fortney.

  "I will be here when you return, Shazedah," Kadir said, moving to one side of the hallway.

  Fortney followed the cowled priest deeper into the temple. The steady shhht, shhht of his long robe dragging across the stone floor was the only sound. The air was thick with the choking scent of the priests' incense and strange reagents.

  "The sanat-magi have many skills," Zamiran said as they wended their way further in. "Some have the power to heal the body. Some have the power to break the mind. Some can change one material to another. Each Power depends on the magus."

  Fortney nodded. This was all well-trodden ground, repeated to the point of tedium, but right now she was not a princess, she was a student and the priest was her mo'allem, her teacher. Her duty now was to listen and learn. If the sanat-magi wanted to repeat this lesson every day, she must hear it and learn it.

  Zamiran took an unexpected turn. The oil-lamps along the wall became sparser, and darkness crept in between them, growing, looming over them.

  "There are some skills the sanat-magi can possess that are hidden from the populace," he said. "The people would not understand. Today, my princess, you will see one of the mysteries, the Powers we do not share."

  Tension climbed back into Fortney's spine. This was the part she hated. Many of the "secret" skills she had been shown so far were bizarre and, in her thinking, perverse rituals and Powers. The sanat-magi were powerful spiritual guides and leaders of the kingdom, but some of their abilities were kept secret for good reason.

  The darkness grew. The hallway angled downward, carrying them beneath the earth. Her shoulders stiffened and her hands unconsciously curled into fists.

  They arrived in a dank chamber. The smell of incense was overridden by a rotten-sweet smell of corruption. Two slim oil flames guttered on either side of an altar. The altar was waist-high and long enough for a tall man to lay out. The rest of the chamber was black and oppressive.

  Fortney's face twisted in distaste. The sanat-magi gestured her forward to the altar.

  Behind the altar, hidden by the darkness, stood a figure in robe and cowl. He drew his hood back as she approached. Tattooed in red on his forehead was a symbol Fortney had not seen before: a triangle with one beam reaching high above it. He looked at her and she recoiled. His eyes were black from edge to edge.

  "Approach," the dark priest said.

  She stepped forward reluctantly. Laid on the altar was an array of incomprehensible instruments, bizarre shapes and inexplicable powders, surrounding a small tuft of gray fur.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "Today, you will witness the Power of marg-zendeh," Zamiran intoned ominously.

  The dark priest gestured at the tuft. "Take it up," he told her.

  Fortney reached out and picked it up. She grimaced as she realized that it was a dead mouse. The little body was stiff and dry. The mouth was open, and its eyes were dull and lifeless.

  "Examine it," the dark priest said. "Is it truly dead?"

  "It is," she said, hiding her distaste. The salty smell of corruption wafted up from the tiny corpse. She laid it back on the altar and unconsciously wiped her hand on her surwal.

  "Behold," he said simply. The priest arranged the devices and began chanting. He lifted a heavy stick from a nearby pile and fed it into the brazier. The brass brazier smoked and spat, its flame writhing with the mysterious power flowing through the chamber.

  Fortney's face contorted in disgust. For some reason, she suddenly had a snapping, greasy taste on her tongue. It was a thing that happened to her sometimes, here in the temple. It probably had to do with the oil the priests used in their lamps. Who knew what strange reagents they infused their oil with?

  The marg-zendeh priest scattered a fine dust over the little corpse, then rested his fingertips on it. He put his face close to the altar and breathed gently on the mouse. He drew back and lifted a small but heavy jar. Protruding from the top were two rods: one of iron and one of copper.

  "What is that?" Fortney asked, unable to keep the distaste from her voice.

  "The marg-zendeh uses a jar that creates lightning," Zamiran said. "With the proper reagents within, the copper and the iron battle, and produce lightning. The Power binds, the lightning animates."

  Fortney raised a skeptical eyebrow. Her father's stories of Ardenian lightning-jars occurred to her.

  Perhaps the Ardenians were not so advanced beyond Namar?n after all.

  Fortney shook her head and tried to focus. She knew from Zamiran's earlier teachings that much of the ceremony of the Powers was not strictly necessary. As long as the physical elements were in place--alchemical compounds, reagents, appropriate devices--and the sanat-magi had the talent and the force of will, the Power would work. Much of the ceremony was to help the sanat-magi focus, and hone his will to the working of the Power.

  Fortney had more questions, but she decided to simply watch the ceremony unfold. The marg-zendeh lowered the lightning-jar until its rods gently touched the gray tuft. A fat spark snapped, leaping into the mouse's body.

  "Behold," the marg-zendeh priest repeated sharply, gesturing at the mouse.

  The little pile of fur twitched. Fortney watched with horrified fascination as it writhed and began moving. With the horrible crackle of tiny bones breaking, it got its feet under itself and stood. It sat there unnaturally, its tail stiff and still sticking straight out, looking more like a crude drawing of a mouse rather than the real thing.

  "It lives," she said, caught between awe and disgust.

  "It does not," replied Zamiran. "It is a manikin of flesh, bound only to obey the magus that raised it."

  Fortney crossed her arms, disapproval settling onto her face.

  "Then what is the use of such a thing?" she asked.

  Zamiran lifted a cold chunk of wood from the brazier. Without warning, he slammed it down on the mouse. Fortney recoiled. The mouse corpse lay twisted on the altar.

  "Now, see the power of marg-zendeh," Zamiran said.

  The dark priest chanted, and the tiny gray body twitched. It rose once more, its movements stuttering now. It raised one paw toward her and tortuously pulled itself forward. Its movements were slower, hampered by its crushed bones, yet still on it came.

  "Until the body is destroyed utterly, it will follow the will of the sanat-magi."

  "So we have an unkillable mouse," she said, watching the tiny revenant pull itself toward her slowly. "How does this serve Namar?n?"

  "The mouse is but an example, Shazedah. With proper preparation, a larger creature can be used."

  "Like a man?" Fortney asked.

  "Like a man," Zamiran answered.

  "Then why do we not send our dead to fight? Why do we spend our soldiers in battle?"

  "There are very few sanat-magi who can control the dead. It takes extraordinary force of will to control a revenant. The larger or more intelligent the creature, the greater the will required. Controlling the revenant of a man is beyond all but the most powerful marg-zendeh. With only a handful of such warriors, they would still need support from living soldiers. And few would be willing to fight alongside..." Zamiran gestured at the mouse with the wood.

  "Then it is useless," Fortney said. She snatched the wood from his hand and smashed the mouse hard enough to splinter the wood, shatter the mouse, and rattle the altar. The crushed tuft of fur did not move again. She glared at Zamiran. "If you must show me horrible things, make sure they are useful."

  Zamiran bowed hesitantly.

  "Yes, Shazedah."

  Fortney sat on the edge of her bed and frowned at the dark green cloth in her hands.

  Her training with the sanat-magi today had been frustrating. She recognized the need for her to understand the Powers they wielded, and some of their Powers were unmistakably useful, but much of their activity was perverse and dangerous, to her way of thinking. That business with the mouse, for example. What would possess them to develop that kind of Power?

  She shook her head. Objectively, she knew the sanat-magi did not choose their Power. They were victims of their own birth. The priesthood was a good place for them to exercise their Powers without alarming regular people or destroying themselves. Guidance, safety, and purpose.

  She thought about the dark priest and his mouse. Who knew what kind of trouble he would have caused, left to his own devices out in the world?

  She needed to apologize to Zamiran later. She had allowed her emotions to guide her actions in his masul.

  In the kingdom, she was princess, her rule absolute, subject to her father. It was her masul, her realm of authority. In the temple, however, the sanat-magi held sway, just as the training hall was Kadir's masul. It was her duty to give each of them proper respect in their masul.

  Zamiran was her teacher, and even if she hated what he was teaching, it was her duty to learn it, and to behave respectfully toward him at all times.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the cloth in her hands. She turned it over, considering.

  The city of Baradon was vibrant and filled with wonders. But, like the temple, it had a dark side. Specifically the night.

  The night of Baradon was no one's masul.

  Under the cloak of darkness, wicked men prowled the city. They sought victims among the people, honoring no allegiance, recognizing no authority, claiming no country. The guards patrolled, but they could only see in the light. Thieves and cutthroats plied their craft in the unseen shadows of Baradon.

  The eager howling and yipping of jackals out on the plains drifted into the quiet city, interrupting her thoughts.

  Should she?

  Fortney drew in a deep breath. Did she want to protect her kingdom, or was she simply looking to work out the frustrations of the day with her fists?

  Did her motivations matter, as long as the result was good?

  After a long moment wrestling with herself, she forced out a sharp sigh.

  Her motivations did matter, but she decided to do it anyway. She quickly bound the cloth around her head, leaving only a sliver visible, showing her mud-brown eyes.

  Fortney listened at her door for a few minutes, marking the endless turning of the guards in the hallway outside her room. She pinched out the lamp, plunging her room into darkness. She opened the shutters in front of her window and sat on the sill. The cool night air wrapped around her form. She gazed up at the fat, heavy moon and the sharp stars sprinkled through the sky, then looked at the stone-paved street far below.

  Fortney took a deep breath, bunched her legs under her, and leapt out into the cool night air.