Chapter 36: Beautiful Games

BREDON FOUND ME in the stables.

I was arranging horses for the journey back to the University, checking saddles and counting provisions, when his distinctive white-capped figure appeared in the doorway. His silver-topped walking stick caught the afternoon light, throwing a thin bar of brilliance across the straw-covered floor.

My hand dropped to the knife at my belt.

“Leaving so soon?” His voice carried that cultivated mildness I had come to associate with him—pleasant as summer rain, and just as hard to predict. “Without saying goodbye?”

“I know who you are.” The words came out harder than I intended. “Lord Brendan. You visited the Lackless door two years ago. Under a false name.”

For the first time since I’d met him, Bredon’s composure cracked. Just slightly—a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly masked. But I’d seen it.

“Meluan told you.”

“She told me enough.” I didn’t let go of the knife. “Enough to know you’ve been lying about who you are. About what you want.”

“I’ve been careful about who I am. There’s a difference.” He stepped into the stable, and I noticed—perhaps for the first time—how carefully he moved. Not the caution of age. The precision of a predator who has learned to seem harmless. “And what I want is considerably more complicated than you imagine.”

“Then explain it. Or I leave now and you never see me again.”

He studied me for a long moment. Something shifted in his expression—calculation giving way to something that looked almost like respect.

“You think I’m Master Ash,” he said.

The name hit me like a blow. I hadn’t spoken it aloud—hadn’t even fully formed the suspicion consciously. But he’d seen it anyway.

“Are you?”

“No.” The word was flat, definitive. “Though I understand why you’d suspect it. The pieces fit, if you arrange them a certain way. The knowledge, the interest in Denna’s song, the connections to powers that most believe are legend.” He moved closer, his footsteps barely whispering against the straw. “But Master Ash is someone else entirely. Someone I’ve been trying to identify for decades.”

“And who is he?”

“You already know.” Bredon’s eyes met mine. “You’ve known since the Cthaeh spoke to you. Since it described a man whose anger burns like white-hot iron. Since it mentioned someone who hurts the woman you love.”

The pieces clicked together. Not slowly, as revelations usually came, but all at once—a cascade of understanding that left me breathless.

“Cinder.”

“Ferule, as he was named before the binding changed him.” Bredon nodded. “He calls himself Master Ash now because ash is what remains after fire. And fire is what he’s always been best at.”

“But the Cthaeh—it said I’d met him twice. Once at my troupe, but the second time—”

“Was in the Eld, when you hunted the false Ruh. You nearly caught him then, but he slipped away. Changed his face. Became someone else.” Bredon’s voice hardened. “He’s been wearing Denna like a mask ever since. Using her voice, her beauty, her talent to spread his poison.”

My legs felt weak. I leaned against the horse, trying to process what I was hearing.

“All this time. Her patron. The one she protects, defends, refuses to name…” I looked at Bredon. “Why would she protect him? Why would anyone protect a monster?”

“Because he doesn’t show her his true face. Because the marks on her skin change how she thinks, how she feels. Because she believes—truly believes—that he’s her benefactor, her teacher, her path to something greater.” Bredon’s voice softened. “She’s not complicit, Kvothe. She’s a victim. One who doesn’t know she’s being victimized.”

I thought of every conversation with Denna. Every time she’d defended her patron. Every bruise she’d explained away, every absence she’d refused to account for.

“How do you know all this?”

“Because I’ve been watching the Chandrian for longer than you’ve been alive. Because stopping them is the purpose I was raised to.” He stepped back, straightening. “I am what remains of the Amyr. Not the painted soldiers the Tehlins pretend to honor. Not the knights in children’s stories. The real Amyr, who have been working to prevent catastrophe for three thousand years.”

I didn’t believe him. Not entirely.

The claim was too convenient. Too perfectly timed. Just when I’d begun to suspect him, he offered an explanation that made him an ally instead of an enemy. A classic misdirection.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” I asked. “About the Amyr. About Cinder. About any of this.”

“You don’t.” Bredon’s answer was surprisingly direct. “You have no reason to trust me. I’ve been deceptive about my identity. I’ve manipulated events to bring you here. I’ve played games within games, and you’ve only seen a fraction of the board.”

“Then why should I listen to anything you say?”

“Because the alternative is worse. Because Cinder has Denna, and you don’t know how to save her. Because the doors are opening, and you don’t have the knowledge to close them.” He paused. “And because despite everything, despite the manipulation and the secrets and the lies of omission, I’m telling you the truth now. About the things that matter.”

I studied his face. Looking for tells, for deception, for the mask beneath the mask. But either he was the best liar I’d ever met, or he was being genuine.

Perhaps both.

“The Amyr did terrible things,” I said. “In the name of the greater good. How do I know you won’t do the same?”

“You don’t.” That directness again. “The Amyr have always been willing to sacrifice individuals for larger purposes. We’ve burned the wrong books. Silenced the wrong scholars. Made choices that haunted us for centuries.” His voice hardened. “Including, I suspect, choices about your family.”

The admission struck me like a physical blow.

“You knew about my parents.”

“I knew they were researching dangerous things. I knew they had connections to secrets we were trying to protect.” He paused. “We were still debating what to do about them. The Amyr don’t act rashly—we consider every option, seek alternatives. We were looking for ways to redirect your father’s research without harming him.”

“But Cinder didn’t wait.”

“Cinder didn’t wait for consensus. He had his own reasons, his own seal to protect. He struck first, and by the time we knew what had happened…” Bredon’s voice was heavy. “I didn’t order their deaths. That was Cinder’s work. But I knew they were at risk, and I didn’t move fast enough to protect them.” He met my eyes without flinching. “If that makes me your enemy, I understand. But it doesn’t change what needs to be done.”

I wanted to draw my knife. Wanted to hurt him for what he’d just confessed. But something held me back—not forgiveness, but the cold calculation of necessity. If he was right about Cinder, about Denna, about the doors, then I needed him. Needed what he knew.

Even if I hated him for it.

We walked through gardens I had never seen.

Not the manicured paths where courtiers strolled and gossiped—a private space, walled and quiet, where ancient oaks cast shadows that seemed to move with purpose. Moss grew thick on stones that might have been laid before the Empire was born. The air smelled of old leaves and older secrets.

Bredon led me to a pavilion hidden among the trees, its wooden structure weathered to silver-grey, its roof thick with climbing roses long since gone to thorn. Inside, a table waited—and on the table, a Tak board.

Not the simple travel set we had used before. This board was larger, more elaborate. The wood was dark as old blood, inlaid with patterns of silver that caught the dappled light. The pieces were carved from stone—some pale as moonlight, others dark as a starless sky.

“Sit,” Bredon said. “Play.”

“I don’t understand. If you have information—”

“Information given freely is rarely valued.” He settled into the chair across from me, arranging his robes with the precision of long practice. “Information won in contest is remembered. Treasured.” He gestured at the board. “Humor an old man. Play, and I will tell you everything you need to know.”

I looked at the board. At the pieces waiting in their starting positions. At the man across from me who had just revealed himself as something far more dangerous than a friendly old nobleman.

“Fine.” I sat. “But no holding back. If we’re going to play, we play properly.”

“I would expect nothing less.” He reached for a white piece. “Shall I begin?”

The first moves of Tak are about territory.

You place your flat stones to claim space on the board, building toward a road that will connect opposite edges. The game looks simple at first—just put down pieces, try to make a line. But simplicity is a mask. Beneath it lies a depth that has consumed strategists for centuries.

Bredon placed his first stone in the center of the board. The classic opening—aggressive, commanding, demanding a response.

I countered on the edge, building toward a position that could threaten multiple approaches.

“The Amyr were never what the stories claim,” Bredon said, placing his second stone. “We were never heroes. Never saints. We were pragmatists who understood that some evils must be committed to prevent greater ones.”

“The greater good.” I placed my stone, extending my line.

“A phrase that’s been abused beyond recognition. But yes—in essence.” He studied the board. “When the Creation War ended, when the doors were sealed and the broken world began to heal, someone needed to ensure the peace would last. That the seals would hold. That no one would try to open what had been closed.”

“And that someone was you.”

“That someone was an organization.” He placed a standing stone—a capstone—blocking my advance. “A network of people across centuries, passing knowledge and responsibility from generation to generation. We didn’t call ourselves Amyr at first. That name came later, when we needed to hide in plain sight.”

I studied the board. The capstone changed everything. I needed to redirect, find a new path around his defense.

“Hide from whom?”

“From everyone. The people who wanted to open the doors. The people who wanted to forget they existed. The people who would have panicked if they knew what lurked behind the seals.” He watched me consider my options. “Secrecy was our greatest tool. We worked invisibly, manipulating events, removing threats before they could mature.”

We played in silence for several moves. The weight of what he’d told me in the stables—about my parents, about the choices the Amyr were willing to make—pressed down on every move I placed.

The game had shifted—I was on the defensive now, reacting to his threats rather than building my own. Each stone he placed seemed to anticipate my response, cutting off paths I hadn’t even seen yet.

“The Chandrian,” I said finally. “What do you know about them?”

“More than anyone alive, probably.” He captured one of my pieces, removing it from the board with delicate precision. “They were Amyr once. Or something like Amyr—the distinction gets blurry that far back. They believed the doors should be opened. That what was sealed away should be released.”

“Why?”

“Different reasons for different members.” He studied the board. “Haliax—Lanre, as he was called—believed that what’s behind the doors could end his suffering. Could finally grant him the death he’s been denied for three thousand years.”

“And Cinder?”

“Cinder has… other motivations.” Bredon’s voice grew colder. “More complicated ones.”

“He killed my parents. He’s writing on Denna like she’s a page in a book. His motivations don’t seem complicated to me.”

“They are, though.” Bredon leaned forward, and for a moment his mask of cultivated gentility slipped, revealing something harder beneath. “Cinder is a renegade. Not just from the world—from the Chandrian themselves. He’s working toward an opening, yes. But not the same opening Haliax wants.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means the Chandrian aren’t united. They haven’t been for centuries.” He placed a stone that blocked my best remaining path. “Haliax leads by force of will, but several of his seven have their own agendas. Cinder is the most dangerous because his agenda might actually succeed.”

I looked at the board. My position was crumbling. Every move I made opened new vulnerabilities, while his structure grew stronger with each piece.

“What is he trying to do?”

Bredon was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“He’s trying to become a god.”

“Gods don’t exist.” I placed a desperate blocking stone.

“Not the gods in the Tehlin scriptures.” Bredon’s voice carried absolute certainty. “But under the right circumstances, a mortal can become something beyond mortal. By reshaping what people believe. Reality follows belief—that’s the oldest magic.”

“And Cinder thinks he can do this.”

“Has been working toward it for three thousand years.” He placed another stone with deliberate care. “The song Denna is singing isn’t just about opening the doors. It’s about changing how people think about the Chandrian—about Cinder specifically. If enough people believe he’s something more than mortal, he becomes it. The doors are just the catalyst.”

“The world ends?”

“The world changes. In ways that might make ‘ending’ look merciful.”

I studied the board. The game was nearly lost—his stones formed an almost unbroken line across the center, while mine were scattered and disconnected.

“One question,” I said.

“Ask.”

“If you’re Amyr—if you’ve been watching the world for three thousand years—why haven’t you stopped this before? Why wait until the doors are already opening?”

Bredon was silent for a long moment.

“Because we failed.” The admission cost him something. “The Amyr have been losing for decades. Our numbers diminished. Our resources scattered. And the opening we’ve spent three thousand years preventing is happening anyway.”

“So you’re desperate.”

“Desperate enough to tell the truth. Desperate enough to recruit someone who has every reason to hate us.” He looked at me with something like hope—or perhaps calculation wearing hope’s mask. “You have abilities we don’t, Kvothe. You’ve spoken to the Cthaeh. You’ve touched naming at levels most arcanists never reach. You have connections to both the Faen realm and the mortal world that give you unique leverage.”

“You want me to join you.”

“I want you to work with us. There’s a difference.” He held out his hand—not for shaking, but palm up, an offering. “We can’t force you. We can only offer what we know and hope you’ll make the right choice.”

“The right choice being your choice.”

“The right choice being whatever stops Cinder. Whatever keeps the doors closed. Whatever prevents the catastrophe we’ve been fighting against for millennia.” His hand remained extended. “I’m not asking you to forgive what we’ve done. I’m asking you to help us fix what’s been broken.”

I looked at his hand. At the old man who wasn’t just an old man. At the weight of history pressing down on this moment.

Then I looked at the Tak board.

“We should finish the game first.”

Bredon smiled—the first genuine smile I’d seen from him.

“Indeed we should.” He withdrew his hand and studied the board. “You’re losing, you know.”

“I’m aware.” I examined my remaining options. His road was nearly complete—one more stone and he would connect opposite edges. My pieces were too scattered to form a coherent defense. “But I’ve noticed something about how you play.”

“Oh?”

“You’re conservative.” I placed a stone that seemed random—far from his main line, distant from any obvious threat. “You build slowly. Carefully. You don’t take risks unless you have to.”

“And you find that… problematic?”

“I find it predictable.” I placed another stone, equally distant. “You’re so focused on your grand strategy that you miss the small things. The pieces that don’t seem to matter.”

Bredon studied the board. For the first time, his brow furrowed in something like concern.

“What are you doing?”

“Something reckless.” I placed my third stone—and suddenly, impossibly, my scattered pieces connected. A road that shouldn’t have existed, built from what looked like random moves, cutting across his perfect defenses. “Something you didn’t anticipate.”

He stared at the board. Then he laughed—a genuine, delighted sound.

“Magnificent. I’ve been playing this game for sixty years, and I’ve never seen anyone build a road like that.” He leaned back in his chair. “You see patterns where others see chaos. That’s exactly why we need you.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“No. But you haven’t refused, either.” He gestured at the board. “The game isn’t over. Neither is our conversation. Tell me—what would it take? What would convince you to work with us?”

I thought about it. About my parents. About Denna. About the doors and the Chandrian and the song that was changing the world.

“I want the truth,” I said. “Not your version of it. Not what you think I need to know. The actual truth about what happened. About what’s happening. About what’s going to happen.”

“The truth is complicated.”

“Then explain it. All of it.” I leaned forward. “Start with Lanre. Start with the beginning. And don’t leave anything out.”

Bredon studied me for a long moment. Then he nodded.

“Very well. But this will take some time. And it will change how you see… everything.”

“I’m listening.”

He reached for the board, carefully resetting the pieces to their starting positions.

“It began,” he said, “with a love story. Like so many disasters do. It began with a man who loved too much and a woman who died too soon. It began with Lanre and Lyra, and the war that broke the world…”

He settled back in his chair, and the story began.