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  FOR MY

  BRILLIANT EDITOR AT SAGA PRESS, JOE MONTI, AND MY SUPERHERO AGENT, MATT BIALER

  CONTENTS

  Map of the Five Isles

  1 CRYSTALWOOD only the dead truly know

  2 GAULT AULBREK leave her unburied

  3 TALA BRONACHELL our smoldering souls

  4 NAIL worshipped the beasts

  5 AVA Shay the Soulless Lament

  6 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN the weight of a world

  7 CRYSTALWOOD oh, this bloody Sacrament

  8 TALA BRONACHELL five divine weapons

  9 GAULT AULBREK quick to betray

  10 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL never-ending sadness

  11 AVA SHAY freedom from the wraiths

  12 NAIL pervert the gospels

  13 TALA BRONACHELL above all other gifts

  14 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN basest forms of nature

  15 STEFAN WAYLAND baptized in both darkness and fear

  16 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL secret of the Skulls

  17 GAULT AULBREK the nobleman truly brave

  18 CRYSTALWOOD scars upon their flesh

  19 AVA SHAY under the yoke of abuse

  20 NAIL deemed free and worthy

  21 GAULT AULBREK shall remain spotless

  22 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN be wary of belief

  23 TALA BRONACHELL children of wrath

  24 STEFAN WAYLAND satisfy the law

  25 NAIL much slaughter and bloodshed

  26 AVA SHAY the dusts of time

  27 CRYSTALWOOD crow-picked bones

  28 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL bound unto death

  29 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN the heartiest believer

  30 NAIL flowing rivers of silver

  31 STEFAN WAYLAND under constant mystery

  32 NAIL certain light and mist

  33 AVA SHAY death of the anointed

  34 CRYSTALWOOD prey upon themselves

  35 GAULT AULBREK truth and guilt

  36 NAIL sworn and forsook

  37 TALA BRONACHELL how love is to be won

  38 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL bearing a gold coin

  39 BISHOP HUGH GODWYN Blood of the Dragon

  40 STEFAN WAYLAND beware alchemy

  41 CRYSTALWOOD one finally finds peace

  42 TALA BRONACHELL humble servants

  43 GAULT AULBREK a knight unjust

  44 AVA SHAY great works of art

  45 STEFAN WAYLAND nameless beasts of the underworld

  46 NAIL true heroism

  47 CRYSTALWOOD the power of the witch

  48 BISHOP HUGH GODWYN a false bishop of Laijon

  49 STEFAN WAYLAND the source of all life

  50 TALA BRONACHELL make cursed things blessed

  51 NAIL the King of Slaves

  52 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL lay false claim

  53 GAULT AULBREK a true soldier

  54 TALA BRONACHELL bathed in blood

  55 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN the end of all things

  56 NAIL a taste of death

  57 CRYSTALWOOD a slain enemy

  58 TALA BRONACHELL devour the ethic Vallè shroud

  59 AVA SHAY death of the anointed

  60 BISHOP HUGH GODWYN hollow of their ignorance

  61 TALA BRONACHELL love of Laijon

  62 CRYSTALWOOD conniving of Laijon

  63 NAIL true heroism

  64 MANCELLOR ALLEN pleasant equality in death

  65 BISHOP HUGH GODWYN haven from the gallows

  66 MANCELLOR ALLEN pale white flesh

  67 BISHOP HUGH GODWYN lakes of blood

  68 LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN love of good

  69 NAIL night long and drear

  70 JONDRALYN BRONACHELL the beginning of all things

  Appendix

  Timeline of events leading up to The Forgetting Moon

  Characters in The Blackest Heart

  INTRODUCTION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  In 2002, I was working as a carpet cleaner for Bart’s Chem Dry in Salt Lake City. One of our regular clients was Utah Jazz Hall of Fame point guard John Stockton. One day I was cleaning rugs in Mr. Stockton’s den while he was working at his desk. I noticed he had a bookshelf filled with many of my favorite novels, and we struck up a conversation about books. At one point I made the offhand comment that I’d always dreamed of writing my own novels someday. His simple reply was, “Well, why haven’t you?” I think I muttered something stupid like, “I dunno,” and went back to cleaning his rugs. Yet for the rest of the day I couldn’t stop thinking about that simple question. “Why haven’t you?”

  So that night when I got home, I wrote the first sentence of my first novel, then the first paragraph, then the first page. And I’ve kept writing ever since. Truth is, had any other person in Utah asked me “Why haven’t you?” I would have likely just shrugged and never written a word. But John Stockton is someone to listen to, a six-foot-two man in a league full of seven-foot giants, a man who through pure determination rose above the odds and became an all-star in his field. If he could do that, certainly I could write some novels. Which I did. And I reckon we can chalk up one more assist to John Stockton.

  Again, never-ending gratitude goes out to Matt Bialer, my awesome agent and the best street photographer in NYC, and to Stefanie Diaz for foreign sales. Thanks also to Klett-Cotta in Germany and Canelo in the UK. My editor at Saga Press, Joe Monti: thanks for all your hard work, patience, and for drafting me into the big leagues. Valerie Shea, Jeannie Ng, Bridget Madsen, and Jenica Nasworthy at Simon & Schuster for all the wonderful, time-consuming, and precise editing. Kevin J. Anderson at WordFire, plus Alexi Vandenberg and Kuta Marler at Bard’s Tower, for helping me promote The Forgetting Moon at conventions around the country. A special shout-out to Amber R. Boehm for spotting all the horrid mistakes in the first draft and saving me much embarrassment, and to Karen Durfee for reminding me about the curse of the stones (some writers are prone to forget major plot points). Map-maker Robert Lazzaretti deserves a nod. And again designer Michael McCartney and illustrator Richard Anderson’s fantastic cover is spot-on gritty, ethereal perfection. Awesome job, guys!

  Thanks also to Stephen King, Mötley Crüe, and the Oakland Raiders.

  * * *

  Trees full of violent crimes and grass gorged with blood. Only the dead truly know this Bloodwood Forest.

  —THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  CRYSTALWOOD

  22ND DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  BLOODWOOD FOREST, SØR SEVIER

  Screams broke the silence that shrouded the lush black woods. Savage cries that Krista Aulbrek gathered and shoved into that nowhere, bottomless part of he
r mind before they could take root in her emotion. This was her first time in this place of unique strangeness, this mystifying maze of hard-edged beauty and endless dark splendor—this Bloodwood Forest.

  Krista led her mare by the bit. The horse was large, magnificent, and black; Dread was her name. Her nostrils were wide and huffing, ears back. Wariness from days of hard riding infused the horse’s slow gait as together they padded through the velvety green blanket of scent and black flowers. The mare’s eyes were a hazy red color—a sign of the rauthouin bane Krista had been injecting into her young mount. Within a year those twisted eyes would flame like sparkling red jewels, and the mare’s muscles would toughen and swell with unnatural strength. Dread would be a true Bloodeye steed then.

  As she and Dread drifted their way down a gentle slope of grass and dark trees, Krista’s senses were ever heightened. Red butterflies fluttered from the lavish, mossy bracken at her every step. There was no deadfall here. Every tree was tall and thin and lanced straight toward the brassy gray sky. They were like the white birch of the Sør Sevier Nordland Highlands, only the bark of these trees was black as moonless midnight, every sinuous branch bristling with barb and thorn. Leaves of lustrous green webbed with red veins seemed to pulse and dance to the beating of a giant heart buried deep in the loamy soil.

  A thick, damp air crawled through the trees and dragged over the flowers as Krista and Dread reached the bottom of the hillock and saw their first prisoner, a middle-aged woman clothed in naught but a tan smock. She was facing Krista, standing with her arms stretched behind her around the base of a Bloodwood tree, hands cuffed in irons, chains wrapped around both legs. Her eyes widened at the sight of Krista and the large black horse. Her chest heaved in panic as she mouthed a silent No!

  Krista knew how she herself must look to this captive. Black leather armor, daggers strapped to her hip under crisp black sheaths, a black cape thrown over her shoulder. A sword and leather pouch were tied to the saddle of the demon-eyed horse at her side, the satchel full of poisons and tenvamaru. Yes, Krista knew a Bloodwood assassin was striking to behold. Especially one like her, flawless pale skin, long straight blond hair, bangs squared just above bright green eyes. Together, she and Dread looked cold, hard, deadly, and above all beautiful.

  Other prisoners soon came into view—a hundred of them; men, women, a handful of Vallè, a mangy oghul or two. All were spread out behind the first woman. All were shackled and chained to tree after tree, on and on into the dark distance of the charcoal-bleak forest. All had been brought up from the dungeons of Rokenwalder for this Sacrament of Souls.

  The heavy wind stilled, and to the left of Krista, the forest shimmered darkly. A cloaked form materialized between the opaque depths of the Bloodwood trees, and the captive woman screamed.

  Confident and tall, face hidden in the shadows of his cowl, Black Dugal glided toward Krista like a malevolent mist. Sure was his step. Silent as snow falling at night, he seeped through the trees with an unobtrusive ease. His own massive Bloodeye stallion, Malice, was a hazy silhouette of grim darkness in the woods behind him, red eyes glowing, ever watchful.

  Dugal’s raven-colored cloak flowed above the grass and spindly briar. As he drew near, the familiar landscape of his face came into focus. Chiseled nose; hard lips; gray-shot beard; and veined, red eyes—all that was visible in the shadow of his hood. One deep scar in the shape of a crescent moon marked his left cheek; two others arced below his right eye and across his face to disappear under his beard. One shallow scar cut straight through his right brow and sooty eyelashes and up his forehead to become lost in the cowl of his mantle. Overall, Dugal looked sinister, tortured, and strikingly beautiful.

  Beauty was the first rule of the Bloodwood assassins.

  “Have you anything to say for yourself?” Dugal stepped up to her.

  Krista always felt a certain thrill hearing the coldness of her master’s voice. She met his radiant, penetrating gaze with confidence, knowing now with a certainty she had achieved this goal before Hans Rake, for Black Dugal would not have appeared to her had she not arrived here first.

  “I reached this place easy enough.” She did not break her eyes from his. Her fingers tightened, though, still fastened to Dread’s bit. Her skin prickled with anticipation.

  “Three whole days it took,” he said. Not a muscle in him moved. He had a way of creating tension in her like no human could. “I expected better from you.”

  Despite his words, she held her head high. “I do not see Hans anywhere.”

  Dugal met her statement with stony eyes. A sickly red light glared from those cold orbs. Blood of the Dragon! It was alchemy she did not yet understand—sap of the Bloodwood tree mixed with some fell drug. Her master had not yet offered her Blood of the Dragon, as he had Hans Rake. In their first year of training, Hans had compiled more kills than her. Blood of the Dragon had been his reward. And a Bloodwood assassin in training was allowed to partake of the precious and rare drug only under Black Dugal’s leave. Each year, a different reward was given to the one with the most kills. Last year Krista was gifted with Dread.

  “Your name is now Crystalwood,” Dugal said almost warmly.

  Crystalwood. She liked how it sounded on his tongue. Krista to Crystalwood. She was almost disappointed in herself for not anticipating it.

  “I see you approve.” Only Dugal could so quickly adopt that intimate tone of a long-known friend. “I had one who struck like a spider. Another who stalked like a hawk. One who moved like silk. One as charming as a rose. All of my making. All beautiful. Now you, perhaps my greatest creation. More bright and precious than a jewel. More sharp and keen than a crystal shard. You are my deadliest weapon of all. More lethal even than Silk and the Rose combined.”

  Krista thrilled at his words. She pictured Silkwood and Rosewood; the two exquisite blond female Vallè of Black Dugal’s Caste. Both had left on separate missions more than five moons ago. The two Vallè had helped Dugal train her and Hans Rake in the beautiful art of assassination. They had participated in many kills together. There had also been another teacher in the beginning—Spiderwood—an experienced but cruel-faced Bloodwood who’d mimicked the traits of Dugal to an alarming degree. So exacting were his mannerisms, Krista wondered if he wasn’t somehow relation to her master.

  “Crystalwood,” she repeated, feeling the name flow from between her lips.

  Dugal gave her a placid nod of affirmation. His eyes roamed the forest beyond, settling on the woman chained to the tree. Hints of sunlight trickled through the crooked branches and leaves above like whispers through a stained-glass window and lit on the woman’s panicked face like gold.

  “Come.” Dugal beckoned.

  Krista’s heart failed a beat. She put her head to her mare’s neck. Felt Dread’s warmth. It always calmed her, this small thing. Helped her breathe easy. Then she let go the bit, motioned her horse to stay, and followed her master. The woman at the tree tried to shrink away as Krista and Dugal approached. Sunken flesh hung in wrinkled folds about her eyes, cheeks, and jowls. The captive’s tan shift carried an air of urine and sweat. In fact, a musty, fetid stink suffused the entire area. And the distant shrieks of other prisoners echoed through the forest.

  Dugal reached one languid hand above the woman’s head. He peeled a thin strip of coal-colored bark from the tree, tossing it to the ground without thought. Red sap welled slowly from the tree’s wound. The curious sap sizzled and smoked as it crawled down the black bark. Krista ran her fingers over the surface of the tree. It was not flaky and brittle like that of a birch. It felt like moist leather—like warm human flesh. She could feel herself shudder at the unsettling sensation.

  Dugal reached above the captive again, dabbed two of his fingers into the smoking sap. Tendrils of smoke drifted from his fingers, now painted in red. He stepped toward Krista and ran both fingers across her face, smearing two streaks of sizzling sap under her left eye. It stung. Krista resisted the urge to flinch away, focused on the co
nfusion and panic on the chained woman’s face.

  Dugal swiped more smoking sap from the tree. “Show me your tongue,” he ordered, his fingers coated in red again.

  Krista stuck out her tongue. Dugal touched the sap to it. Initially it burned. Then she caught its divine taste and immediately desired more, eyes greedily fixed on the wound in the tree and the crimson sap hanging there, sizzling.

  “Part of your final test is to never partake of the Bloodwood sap again.” Dugal’s red-streaked, stone-carved eyes bit into hers. “Even if I offer it.” Krista felt great sorrow and longing for the sap before the words were even out of his mouth.

  “Death is the father of terror.” Dugal’s eyes were now trained on the prisoner. “ ’Tis what men dread most. Death. But there is such beauty it.” He reached out and stroked the side of the woman’s face with the back of his hand. She cowered away from his touch. He continued, “The image of a corpse is graven into the mind of the one who sees it for the first time. That first time one sees death—not the death of a doe or a dog or a skittering gutter cat, but real death, the death of a human—is powerful. Name one other visible image as potent, as compelling, as full of beauty.”

  Dugal turned his gaze to Krista. “And here you are. Crystalwood. Ready and willing to administer more cruel beauty on this lovely day.” She was always charmed by her master, even here, even conversing of sacrificial murder in a forest of midnight color and savage screams and divine burning sap. Such cruel beauty.

  He was right. Five years killing, of training in dance, acrobatics, games, puzzles, stealth, lock picking, key making, thievery, crossbow, alchemy, mixing poisons, knife and sword and spear and chain-mace had led her here, to this.

  Her Sacrament of Souls.

  She looked up at the black tree and oozing sap. I want to taste it again. With that thought, she looked away. Sweating. When Black Dugal had first presented her with the Bloodwood leathers, she’d imagined they would be as uncomfortable and hot as a baker’s oven. Yet that had not been the case. They were surprisingly comfortable. She had never once in five years sweated in them. Now she felt the odd sensation that the armor was somehow feeding on her flesh, consuming her like a blanketing parasite, infecting her with its sumptuous stifling caress.