Credits Written by: Tracy Barnett, Natania Barron, Richard Dansky, Thoraiya Dyer, Matt Forbeck, Erin Hoffman, Haralambi Markov, Tim Pratt, Steven S. Long, Lucien Soulban, Wendy Wagner, Damien Angelica Walters. Developmental Editor: Jaym Gates Managing Editor: Matt McElroy Creative Director: Richard Thomas Art Direction and Design: Michael Chaney Cover Art: Franklin Chan Special thanks: To Lee and Venetia for their hospitality, to Matt for giving me the opportunity to work on this, and to my fantastic authors, who always make me very, very happy. © 2015 CCP hf. All rights reserved. Reproduction without the written per- mission of the publisher is expressly forbidden, except for the purposes of re- views, and one printed copy which may be reproduced for personal use only. Exalted and Storytelling System are registered trademarks of CCP hf. All rights reserved. This book uses the supernatural for settings, characters and themes. All mystical and supernatural elements are fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only. This book contains mature content. Reader discretion is advised. 2 Tales from Te h age of sorrows The Maiden’s Kiss — Tim Pratt 4 Bronze and Bisque — Wendy N. Wagner 12 A Singular Justice — Steven S. Long 20 The Circle Will Be Broken — Matt Forbeck 34 Exalted Among Us — Natania Barron 46 Secrets in My Waters Still — Haralambi Markov 57 What You Do Not Understand — Damien Angelica Walters 62 When the Moon Is Dark — Thoraiya Dyer 71 For Love of Heaven — Erin Hoffman 83 The Herald of Glorious Death — Tracy Barnett 95 A Resting Place at the Heart of the Mountain — Richard Dansky 102 The Kingdom of Honey — Lucien Soulban 111 Author Biographies 122 Table of ConTenTs 3 THE MAIDEN’S KISS by Tim Pratt Winesap’s smile curdled when the dice stopped rolling on the rough wooden table, one die showing a plump set of lips and the other two each displaying a long-lashed eye. It was the “maiden’s kiss,” a winning roll that couldn’t be beaten, and his only hope was to match it; so that they’d roll again to break the tie. It was no hope at all. His eyes slid to Geoffram, his – what, exactly? What relation was the brother of your runaway wife? Geoffram didn’t even raise one of his absurdly bushy eyebrows, just let out a long whistle and clapped Winesap’s opponent on the shoulder. “That’s a roll for the ages, Resalem!” He pounded the table with his fist, making the dice jump, and one showing an eye bounced off to the floor. Geoffram grunted and bent down, disappearing under the table for a moment before coming back up with the die and dropping it on the table again, between Resalem’s immense pile of coins and Winesap’s equally large heap. The difference was, Resalem, by all accounts, could afford to lose his pile, while Winesap’s stake represented his life savings. Geoffram wasn’t taking part in the gambling, not officially. He’d just provided the bare room that smelled of fish, the scarred table, the sour ale – and the scheme to make himself and Winesap rich. According to their scheme, Winesap was supposed to lose and win small sums all night, then risk all on a final roll of the dice, and win every coin on the table. What had gone wrong? Winesap stared at Geoffram, and his heart sank like a stone in a pond. Maybe nothing had gone wrong. Maybe there was another plan, and Winesap played a different part in it than he’d supposed. Resalem nodded. “My luck is running well today.” He was a stout man with graying hair and a goatee dyed incongruously black, dressed in a suit of clothes suitable for a merchant like Winesap himself, but silver buckles gleamed on his boots, and a fat ring adorned his finger, marking him out as something more, pretending to be something less. When Geoffram convinced Winesap to go along with his plot, he’d claimed that Resalem Deveelen was a noble of some kind, traveling from Lookshy to Nexus for 4 Tales from Te h age of sorrows his own reasons, and pausing in their bustling little river town along the way. Resalem was an inveterate gambler, Geoffram said, a chicken ripe for the plucking, and already wriggling on the hook. (How exactly a chicken ripened, and what it might be doing on a hook, were unclear details, but Geoffram’s words had a way of getting away from him, for all that he was accounted a persuasive and silver-tongued fellow.) “Your roll, brother.” Geoffram nudged Winesap under the table with the toe of his boot. Winesap swallowed and picked up the dice. The “blessed” dice! They were beautiful, intricate, and looked very old, though Geoffram said they’d been carved from bone not six months ago, then soaked with tea and smeared with dirt and frozen and plunged into hot water to make them appear ancient. Geoffram was a dealer in fake relics and dubious talismans, an enterprise that Winesap, as a respectable river merchant, found off-putting, though he carried the man’s goods on the ships he hired often enough – at first he’d done it for his wife’s benefit, and after she ran off, he hadn’t seen how to wriggle out of the arrangement. “Fortune favor me,” he muttered. “Fortune?” Resalem smiled, his face red and jolly from ale. “I knew a whore in Nexus named Fortune once. She died of the pox last year. I tend to offer glory to Plentimon of the Dice, myself. At least I know he exists.” Of course Resalem gave glory to Plentimon. Geoffram had come into Winesap’s shop two days before and told him a story, chortling: “I sold a man a set of dice today, Winesap, and convinced him they’d once been the personal dice of Plentimon himself, rolled at his casino in the Coral Archipelago, until they passed from his hands to those of a favored acolyte and, through a series of fascinating adventures, ended up in my care.” “Oh yes?” Winesap was in the middle of reconciling his accounts – he had more money than he thought he should according to the day’s ledger, which always made him nervous – and wanted nothing more than to be left alone to his work. He’d always found Geoffram loud and annoying, but his wife’s presence had obliged him to spend time in the man’s company. When she’d run off with a dashing swordswoman two summers before, Winesap had hoped his connection to Geoffram would be cut as well. No such luck. “I told him that the dice win every game, still carrying some of Plentimon’s residual luck, and that he should use them sparingly, lest he be considered a cheat.” Geoffram leaned over the counter conspiratorially. “I’m taking him around to play for low stakes with some of the boys. We’ll play some tricks with the dice, make sure he wins, and once he’s convinced he can’t lose... I’ve made an arrangement with Melton to help me shear this noble like a sheep. Melton will put up all the coins he’s been hoarding against Resalem, but this time, Resalem’s going to lose the pot. Then Melton and I will split the winnings, half and half. Resalem won’t care, he’s rich anyway, and if he does make any trouble, well. Swallowhill is our town, and he’s far from home.” The Maiden's Kiss 5 Swallowhill – named for a nearby hill where people disappeared, sometimes, if they were stupid enough to spend the night sleeping there – wasn’t as lawless as Nexus, but the people looked out for one another, especially when it came to dealing with the strangers who went up and down the river on their way to the bigger cities, places Winesap had never gone. Winesap scowled. “Melton? Melton?” The man was his greatest commercial rival, adept at getting the better deal, undercutting Winesap at every opportunity, stealing his customers, and generally being a thorn in his side. All that was bad enough, but when Winesap’s wife Glynda ran off with that swordswoman, Melton had seen Winesap in the street the next day and laughed, bending over double, hands on his knees, guffawing so hard he’d nearly choked. Winesap wished he had. “Why Melton?” Geoffram raised one of his eyebrows, each as bushy as a venomous caterpillar. “I would have come to you, brother, but – well. You’ve never been the adventurous type. It’s a sure thing, of course, but even in such enterprises there’s always an element of risk, and, well. There’s nothing wrong with being a stable and respectable man, like yourself. I’ve always rather admired your... steadiness.” Winesap scowled down at his ledger. He’d had dreams, as a young man. Taking a riverboat to Nexus, or beyond. Having adventures. Joining high society by virtue of his wit and charm. He’d read widely, quizzed the many passing travelers about the distant lands they’d seen, and talked of making his fortune young so he could afford to travel in style for the rest of his life. His enthusiasms had won Glynda’s heart – she had wanderlust the way a dog has fleas – and in the first years of their marriage they’d planned the trips they would take. But the business grew, and he was always too busy, or his bad knee was bothering him, or the weather was bad, or there were rumors of unrest in the cities, or the exchange rate was poor, or, or, or – until somehow over a decade passed, and he became ensconced in his business, and Glynda ran away with a swordswoman to have the adventures she’d always wanted.