Chapter 17: A Garden of Bones

Chapter 17: A Garden of Bones

The city of Qarth rose from the edge of the known world like a fever dream. As the Sea Serpent navigated the Jade Gates, Kaelen stood at the prow, a silent, dark figure against the riot of color. Before him, the famed triple walls of the city stood in serene, impossible majesty: thirty feet of rose-colored sandstone, forty feet of jet-black marble, and fifty feet of pale white granite, each higher and thicker than the last. Towers, impossibly slender and graceful, pierced the sky, linked by delicate, airy bridges. It was a city built by poets and madmen, a monument to wealth so ancient it had become decadent.

Mathos, the Qartheen captain, babbled beside him, his voice a mixture of hometown pride and nervous reverence. He spoke of the three warring factions that ruled the city: the Pureborn, the ancient aristocracy who commanded the city guard; the Thirteen, a guild of merchant princes who controlled the city's commerce; and the Tourmaline Brotherhood, the guild of warlocks.

Kaelen listened, but his own senses were telling him a different story. The sea air, once clean and salty, was now thick with the cloying sweetness of exotic blossoms, the sharp tang of spices, and something else, something beneath it all: the faint, metallic scent of decay. He looked at the beautiful, pastel-colored buildings and saw not artistry, but fragility. He looked at the people on the docks, clad in shimmering silks and beaded jewelry, and saw not wealth, but softness. This was a garden, to be sure, but Kaelen suspected it was one fertilized with the bones of forgotten empires.

And the magic. It was everywhere. A thick, heavy blanket of it clung to the city, far more potent and concentrated than anything he had felt in Westeros. It was an ancient, thirsty magic, a corrupt energy that pulsed from a single point deep within the city, a point he knew must be the House of the Undying.

Their arrival was met with the pomp and ceremony Qarth was famed for. A delegation from the Thirteen, led by a portly merchant prince in a ridiculous skirt of golden scales, greeted them at the docks. Kaelen, cloaked in the grim, practical black leathers of Westeros, was a stark and intimidating figure amidst their perfumed finery.

He drew upon the stolen statecraft of Alester Corbray. He spoke not as a humble petitioner, but as an ambassador from a new and vigorous empire, a kingdom forged in the fires of a great rebellion. He spoke of his king, Robert Baratheon, as a warrior of legendary prowess. He spoke of the vast, untapped resources of Westeros and the immense profits to be made by a direct and exclusive trade alliance. His Valyrian, learned from a maester but now refined by the echo of Rhaegar Targaryen himself, was flawless, his tone laced with an authority that commanded their respect.

The Qartheen, who respected power and wealth above all else, were impressed. Kaelen and his retinue were granted a lavish, walled manse in the city's upper reaches, complete with gardens, pools, and an army of unnervingly silent servants. For the next two weeks, Kaelen played the part of the visiting dignitary. He attended lavish feasts, listened to dreadful poetry, and navigated the treacherous currents of Qartheen society. He found their customs laughable: the women with one breast bared, the men who wept publicly at tales of sorrow, the ubiquitous presence of the Sorrowful Men, who whispered "I am so sorry" at every turn. He saw it all as a grand, theatrical display designed to hide a deep-seated spiritual emptiness.

But beneath the mask of the patient ambassador, the predator was at work. By day, he met with the merchant princes of the Thirteen, his new mastery of logistics and finance allowing him to dominate the trade negotiations. By night, he became a shadow. He used his assassin's skills to map the city, to learn its secret ways, to identify the power brokers and their weaknesses. He tasked his Vyrwel men, not with guard duty, but with intelligence gathering, building a detailed picture of the city's factions.

His true quarry, however, remained elusive. The Warlocks, led by the infamous Pyat Pree, were reclusive. Their power base, the House of the Undying, was a place spoken of only in whispers. Kaelen knew he could not simply approach it. He needed a key, an invitation. He found his key in a merchant prince of the Thirteen named Wendello. Wendello was a man whose family fortune was in decline, his influence waning. He was desperate, and Kaelen could smell the desperation on him like cheap perfume.

Kaelen arranged a private meeting. He did not threaten Wendello. He tempted him. He laid out the proposed trade agreement he was negotiating, a deal that would create new kings of commerce in Qarth. He subtly hinted that the most lucrative positions in this new venture would go to those who proved themselves most… useful… to the envoy from Westeros.

"I require information, Wendello," Kaelen said, his voice a low purr. "About the Tourmaline Brotherhood. The Warlocks. Their House."

Wendello paled. "The Warlocks are a dangerous power, my lord. They do not share their secrets."

"Their power is a memory," Kaelen countered, his gaze intense. "Their magic has been fading since the last of the dragons died. They are clinging to relevance. A man of influence, such as yourself, must have heard whispers. Tell me what I need to know, and I will ensure that when the first Westerosi fleet arrives, it is your warehouses that are filled with our goods."

The promise of wealth, of a restoration of his family's glory, was too much for the desperate merchant to resist. He told Kaelen everything he knew. He spoke of the Warlocks' reliance on shade-of-the-evening, the hallucinogenic blue wine that granted them their meager visions. He described the House of the Undying, a strange, root-like tower that was said to be larger on the inside than the out, a place of powerful illusions and maddening whispers. He spoke of their leader, Pyat Pree, a man of great arrogance and dwindling power. And he revealed their greatest weakness: their insatiable hunger for true magic. They were parasites, starved for a taste of the power their ancestors once wielded.

Kaelen now had his plan. He could not break down the Warlocks' door. He would make them open it for him. He was a beacon of true magic in this desert of fading echoes. He just needed to let them catch his scent.

He began to subtly display his power. During a negotiation with the Thirteen, he grew "impatient" with their haggling and, with a focused thought, caused the wine in their goblets to begin steaming, a silent, unnerving display of his pyromantic abilities. A rumor began to spread through the city, a rumor Kaelen himself had started through his agents: a sorcerer-lord had come from the West, a man who could command the flame with his mind.

The bait was laid. It did not take long for the quarry to bite.

He was approached at a moonlit feast in the gardens of the Pureborn. A pale, bald man with lips stained a deep, bruised blue, and eyes that seemed ancient and weary, glided up to him. He was unnaturally tall and slender, his movements sinuous. It was Pyat Pree.

"Lord Vyrwel," the Warlock's voice was a dry, rustling whisper. "They say you are a man of rare talents. A man who carries the scent of the fire."

"I have… studied… many arts," Kaelen replied, his own senses flaring at the proximity of such concentrated, albeit corrupt, magic.

"The greatest art is wisdom," Pyat Pree hissed. "And the greatest wisdom is housed within the walls of my brotherhood. The Undying Ones have seen empires rise and fall. They have conversed with dragons. They would be most honored to share their knowledge with a man of your… potential. We invite you to the House of the Undying, to drink of the shade-of-the-evening and walk the paths of a thousand yesterdays."

The invitation was extended. The Warlock saw Kaelen as a font of power to be drained, a battery to recharge his fading order. Kaelen saw the Warlock and his entire brotherhood as a feast, a single, magnificent meal that would elevate his power to a new plane. Each predator believed the other was the prey.

"I would be honored," Kaelen said, his lips curling into a smile that did not reach his eyes.

He went alone. To bring his guards would be an insult, a sign of fear. He walked through the dusty, twilight streets of Qarth until he stood before his destination. The House of the Undying was not a tower so much as a disease of architecture. It was a long, low, windowless ruin of grey stone that seemed to writhe and coil in on itself, its shape subtly shifting when he wasn't looking directly at it. The air around it was cold, dead, and hummed with a power so ancient and so alien it made the magic of Westeros seem like a child's nursery rhyme.

His magical senses were screaming. He could feel the layered illusions, the temporal distortions, the psychic residue of centuries of dark rituals. He could feel the thirst of the beings within, a palpable, psychic pressure. For the first time since he had slain the Red Priestess, Kaelen felt a sliver of something that was almost, but not quite, fear. It was the thrill of a hunter facing a beast far larger and stranger than any he had ever stalked before.

Pyat Pree met him at the crumbling entrance. "You are brave to come alone, Lord of Westeros."

"Bravery is for men who feel fear," Kaelen replied, his voice flat.

He was led through twisting, impossible corridors that seemed to defy geometry. The whispers started almost immediately, faint and seductive, promising him power, knowledge, the secrets of life and death. He ignored them, his will a shield of cold iron.

They arrived in a large, circular chamber. In the center of the room, seated on stone thrones, were the Undying Ones. They were not the powerful sorcerers Kaelen had imagined. They were withered, desiccated husks, their bodies ancient and frail, their blue-lipped mouths open in silent expectation. Above them, floating in the gloom, was a single, grotesquely swollen, disembodied human heart, its blue flesh pulsing with a sickly, magical light. This was the source of their power.

"They bid you welcome," Pyat Pree whispered. "They offer you a drink." He held out a crystal goblet filled with the viscous, dark blue shade-of-the-evening.

Kaelen took the goblet. He knew it was a poison, a key to unlock the mind to their psychic assault. He drank it down in one gulp.

The world dissolved. He was assaulted by a storm of visions, illusions designed to trap and break his mind. He saw his old life on Earth, the sterile operating theaters, the meaningless luxury, the profound emptiness. He saw the Iron Throne, with himself seated upon it, the lords of Westeros bowing before him. He saw visions of godhood, of cosmic power, of galaxies turning at his command. The Warlocks were offering him everything he had ever wanted, trying to ensnare his will in a web of desire.

But they had made a fatal miscalculation. They were trying to tempt a creature that had no soul left to tempt. Kaelen's will, forged in psychopathy, honed by a dozen stolen lives, and shielded by the perverted duty of a Kingsguard, was absolute. He moved through their illusions as a shark moves through water.

"You offer me shadows," Kaelen's voice echoed through the illusion, cold and clear. "I have come for the substance."

With an act of supreme will, he shattered their psychic assault. The illusions dissolved, and he was back in the chamber, the Undying Ones reeling back on their thrones, their mental attack broken.

"Impossible!" Pyat Pree shrieked. "No mortal can resist the Shade!"

"I am no mortal," Kaelen said, and he unleashed his own power. He didn't use a blade. He used the raw, chaotic fire he had taken from the pyromancer, focused into a single point of incandescent rage. He unleashed a torrent of green and black flame—the color of wildfire, the color of dragonfire—directly at the floating, disembodied heart.

The heart exploded in a shower of blue, foul-smelling light. The Undying Ones screamed, a dry, rustling sound like dead leaves skittering across pavement. Their life source, their anchor to the world, was destroyed. They began to crumble into dust, their ancient bodies finally succumbing to the centuries.

Pyat Pree, his face a mask of horror, tried to flee. But Kaelen was upon him in an instant. He grabbed the Warlock, his hand clamping over the man's mouth, and began to absorb.

The final harvest of Qarth was a torrent of alien knowledge. It was the mastery of illusion and deception, the art of making men see what is not there. It was the knowledge of shadow and dust, of psychic whispers and alchemical secrets. He felt his mind expand, his understanding of magic deepening beyond the elemental powers he had known. He had added the art of the illusionist to his arsenal.

As the last of the Warlocks turned to dust, Kaelen stood alone in the silent, dying House of the Undying. He had walked into the heart of their power and consumed it all. He turned to leave, but as he did, the last echoes of the exploding heart's magic coalesced before him, granting him one final, unbidden vision.

It was not a chaotic glimpse like the ones from the fire. It was stark, clear, and horrifying. He saw a wall of ice as high as the sky. He saw a great, horned shadow rising in the North, its eyes burning like blue stars. He saw an army of the dead, their numbers beyond counting, marching south. And leading them, a figure in armor of black ice, a crown of frozen shards upon his head. The Night King.

And Kaelen felt the being's power. It was a magic so cold, so absolute, so ancient, that it made all the other powers he had consumed feel like flickering candles in a frozen hurricane.

He stumbled out of the House of the Undying and into the Qartheen sunlight, the vision seared into his mind. His hunt for arcane trinkets was over. He had just seen the ultimate prize. The Night King was not just a threat to the world of men. He was the final boss, the final meal. He was a god of death, and Kaelen knew, with a hunger that eclipsed all his previous ambitions, that he would kill that god and take his power for himself. The Game of Thrones, the Hunt for the Arcane… they were all just steps on the path to his true endgame. The Long Night was coming. And with it, the ultimate feast.