by J. Levi
Even now, he grins at me as if he’s fantasizing about sinking his dagger into my throat. Don, on the other hand, is a decent assassin. He keeps his jobs clean and straightforward, with little confrontation, and he uses tact. On the other hand, Brig is pure bloodlust. Every mark he’s hired to kill ends up being flayed like a skinned deer.
“Don,” I nod at him as I grip the doorknob. Brig thrusts his arm in front of my face, blocking me from the doorway. I grind my teeth as I slip into a mask.
“If you’d like to keep that arm, I suggest you remove it from my face,” My voice is cold. Brig scoffs and his arm remains. Before he can blink, I grip his wrist, digging the nail of my thumb into his skin to surprise him with a prick of pain. I already have a dagger in hand I pulled from a concealed hilt underneath my cloak. I draw the blade tight against his throat as I twist his arm behind his back, slam my heel into the back of his knee, forcing him down. Then I shove his face into the door, my dagger blade pressing hard enough into his neck that a trail of blood falls to his collarbone.
“That’s enough.” A voice commands through the door. I consider disobeying, but Don places a gentle hand on my shoulder. I sigh, and with a firm shove, I release Brig and slip into the room. I close the door behind me and cross the room until I prop myself over the arms of a chair in front of a sizeable wood-carved desk.
“Hey, Dad,” I say teasingly.
“I told you not to call me that. I may have raised you, but I ain’t cut out to be called a dad,” Theor says gruffly. He’s reading something, documents lining his desk. The flicker of a lantern nearby and the moonlight cascading from the windows offer a faint light for reading.
I wait, and wait, and wait.
Finally, he grunts while lowering the documents in his hands and leans back in his chair. Theor’s hands clasp atop the desk while he surveys me, probably searching for any new scars. He’d enjoy the nasty divets of healed flesh on my ankle from the hellish hound.
“Mind telling me what happened?” Theor asks. I wince at his tone. He isn’t speaking to me as a father but as a commander. It’s going to be one of those conversations. I sit up in the armchair so I can meet his gaze.
“What did they report from the capital?” I ask. I have to tread carefully with how much I reveal. I don’t want to flat out admit I insubordinately went against orders that resulted in hundreds of dead noblemen.
“We’ve received a night crow,” Theor says. The rebellion fled the capital weeks before I managed the same feat, so I’m unsure of how much he knows. It took me several weeks to sail from the capital to the harbors outside of Fondstadt.
“The capital nobility has taken a hit. Hundreds of deaths were reported. Royal decree claims the deaths are the result of rebellion terrorism. Your little stunt just enraged the city and corralled the citizens into the queen’s hands, seeking revenge.” I wince at the terseness of his tone.
Did someone stay behind in the capital to report the aftermath?
“However, it also mentions the citizens are divided. Rumors say the queen possesses abilities,” a voice says from behind. I turn swiftly. I hadn’t heard the sound of the door opening, let alone someone entering the room. I recognize him immediately and leap from my chair and slam myself against him.
“Oof—” he grunts painfully. I pull away and realize why. His right arm is entirely missing from the shoulder: tightly wrapped compresses and gauze covering the evident carnage. I gasp in astonishment and heartbreak.
“Ah, it looks worse than it feels, I promise,” Ricon says. I caress his cheek, a sentimental notion I only do for a small list of people in my life. Ricon and I have always butted heads, but I still hold some endearment. Nova has always been our glue. I peer over his shoulder, expecting Nova to appear behind him.
“He’s not here,” Ricon says solemnly. I don’t like his tone. It’s grim.
“He’s coming later, though?” I ask, still hopeful. Ricon slowly shakes his head and then shrugs his unmaimed shoulder.
“Do I even want to know who you’re speaking of?” The commander says from behind his desk. I wince as I realize our audience just so happens to be the leader of a guild that has had a ten-year contract to kill our dearest friend.
“Probably not,” I shrug. I hear Theor scoff.
“So, I hear you stirred some shit up down in the capital,” Ricon boasts.
“That was the idea,” I say. The commander raises a brow, and I say, “You’ve been informed. I’m sure Gail filled you in. You know what I’ve witnessed in that place, and I did what I thought I needed to do. I forced the queen’s hand. I saw what happened in that cathedral before I fled the city, barely with my life, I might add.”
“Elaborate,” Theor’s tone is still sharp.
“I fired my bow during Vaneeda’s coronation—two arrows. Aimed it for the queen’s perky fucking face. However, the first arrow didn’t hit.” I explain. “The second gave her a nice prick to the cheek.” I scratch the spot on my face to mimic where I marked the queen’s delicate features.
“You never miss.” Ricon interrupts.
“I don’t. I wouldn’t have missed if the queen didn’t magically stop the arrow right before it met her face. She did something to a mirror in the cathedral, similar to what I witnessed in her private chambers. Only this time, things came out of it.”
“Out of it?” Theor sounds skeptical.
“I know it sounds crazy.”
“Doesn’t sound crazy to me. I’ve seen the same thing back in Laenberg,” Ricon winces at his confession but then adds, “I was working a job…to steal from the lord,” he says sheepishly. “A fae psychopath showed up all bloodlust-like, hellbent on killing him. Oh, and his pet did this to me.”
Ricon points to his shoulder with the missing arm. I cringe as I imagine the pain he endured. I shake the thoughts from my head and continue.
“I found Nymueh and the other missing citizens of the capital…she turned into one of those beasts, right before my eyes. Dozens of them crawled out of the mirror in the cathedral. They slaughtered everything. The demons chased me. One even sunk their teeth in,” I drop my foot on the desk, pull my leathers from my boots, and unfasten the laces to reveal the healing scar tissues. Theor leans forward and inspects the wound.
“I don’t recognize this bite. I’ve never seen anything like this,” Theor confides. Ricon nods expectantly because he has seen this type of bite.
“The beasts don’t look like they…belong here,” Ricon adds.
The commander is silent a long while before speaking again.
“We move forward under the assumption anyone left from the guild and rebellion outposts in the capital are either dead or compromised. I’m ordering everyone to leave their posts in Rhenstadt and Hjornholm.”
“That’s everyone,” I say, astonished.
“Aye. It is” Theor retorts.
“The fucking queen,” Ricon mutters. “Shit would be easier if we could just kill the bitch.”
“From Leluna’s report, it doesn’t seem like anyone can get close enough,” Theor says.
“Anyone except…” I start to say but stop myself—Ricon finishes for me.
“The Twilight Thief,” he says. “Think he could?”
The commander scowls and shakes his head slowly when he says, “Please tell me you’re not about to suggest that we outsource to a known outstanding mark paid by your guild,” Theor says while jabbing a finger through the air at Ricon.
“If you need someone to get close enough, then he can do it,” Ricon reasons. I think Theor agrees, but he won’t confess it. Fucking politics and everything.
Theor contemplates for a long while until he fishes a rolled parchment from his desk and tosses it toward me. I unravel the frayed scroll and skim through it while Theor paraphrases.
“As luck will have it, the Queen of Pirates will only accept a formal interlude to discuss a potential alliance if a specifically named individual were to be
present.”
“Who?” Ricon asks.
“The Twilight Thief,” I say, hiding the smirk itching at the corner of my mouth at the coincidence.
“Your guild leader isn’t going to be happy with the suggestion, not with the outstanding bounty she’s paid for the Twilight Thief’s head,” Theor tells Ricon.
“You’re telling me. Sabel is gonna lose her shit,” Ricon chuffs.
“What if we don’t tell her?” I suggest. They both look to me like I’m a child butting into a conversation that didn’t concern me.
Men.
“I’m sure she can be reasoned with. However, there’s still the issue in locating the infamous Twilight Thief. We’ve spent ten years sending agents after him and always coming up empty-handed,” Theor chides.
Ricon and I exchange a glance, and Theor groans miserably into his palms.
“Why am I not fucking surprised,” his words are muffled through his fingers, and then he says, “I don’t even know why I put up with you.”
“Because of my devilish charm and wicked backhand?” I ask innocently. He’s not amused by my playful banter.
“You,” Theor says while pointing at me. “Find the illusive Twilight Thief and escort him to Quenbluff. I’ll work with the Thieves Guild and get them to see reason.”
“As for you,” Theor turns his gaze to Ricon. “I have a task for you in the North.”
“We’re in Fondstadt. What the fuck is more North than that?” I utter in disbelief.
With a tested sigh, Theor says, “Forline. It’s time we get the witches of the frozen wastes involved.” I cringe, feeling almost sorry for Ricon.
“It’s going to take some time to track down the Twilight Thief,” I say, changing the subject.
Theor tosses another parchment onto the desk. “Signs of burglary in the upper estates of Fionheart Vale.”
I inspect the document, shaking my head by the time I finish scanning the report. “These are petty crimes. Stones and garnets barely the cost of twenty gold marks. This isn’t the Twilight Thief,” I say.
“The thief only comes at night, in the middle of—”
“Twilight.” I finish for Theor. Then, “I still don’t think it’s him. It’s not his style.”
“Yes, well, it’s the only viable lead at the moment, so instead of sitting around with your thumbs up your arses, you’ll leave for Fionheart Vale now. We don’t have time to spare.”
“Why the rush?” I ask.
“We sent a few scouts to the outer boroughs of the capital a fortnight ago. The capital is preparing sieges, and their armies grow every day with new recruits fueled by propaganda. They’re calling anyone against the queen sympathizers.”
“What does that mean?” I ask.
He leans forward further. His tongue swipes across his teeth beneath his lips. He lifts a decanter on the desk of amber liquid and pours it into three glasses. He slides one each to Ricon and me. Theor swigs his own in one gulp as I sip mine, chasing the sharp burn as it coats my tongue and throat.
Finally, after the tension swells in the room, Theor says, “It means, dearest daughter, that you just started a war.”
34
Merida
“They did not awaken. I do not understand. Our brethren died and suffered because the blasted things did not work as they were meant to. The humans starved our city for months. Wee little ones began to do like flies until the mothers and fathers begged Oberyn to cede to the human armies. I don’t know why the golems of dermish manufacture failed to aid our people. They still remain there, outside the city walls. Perhaps they will always be there.”
– personal journal of Terran Chodh 252 B.M.
My mother told me once about her visit to Ljosgard. The kingdom of thrones, she deemed it. Ljosgard is split into five territories, Ygil, the tree of beginnings at the kingdom’s heart. Each domain is unique and beautiful in its own way. She described Ljosgard’s traditional form of oligarchy composed of five courts. My mother reminisced her visit to Sol’Deia, the court of the sun, a domain perfectly enshrined by the magic that forever perpetuates the perfect summer day year-round. The clear blue waters, so crisp and clean that the sand bed can be seen far beneath the waves above. The trees casting a balance of natural shade against the beaming sun. She spoke of the twilight at dawn and dusk, the orchestra of colors too vivid to describe with words.
She told me about the gift a friend had given her. A spherical ball of glass filled with water and a perfect replica of the Ygil and the entire sylphian kingdom. Inside the globe were flecks of white, and she mused that when the globe was shaken, the flecks would flurry and whirl like fresh snow.
That’s what I imagine as I watch the sea of ash and soot flurry across the desolate remains of Andeil. It’s surreal, the sight of it. It’s too familiar to the view I’ve had outside my prison window all my life: a sea of darkness, the flurry of ash, the hum of fire, and the piercing agony of pain and suffering. I can hear the wails of survivors leaking from the city rubble. The sun hasn’t surfaced against the horizon. Its light emanates from the east, conjuring the hues of ocean blue, the purple of bruised flesh, and the subtle hint of scarlet.
The blonde-haired boy stands beside me, staring at the same grim horizon.
He told me his name when I first awoke in a strange bed surrounded by strange things, though I’d already forgotten it. The room was swelled by baubles, trinkets, and books. A small brown-haired girl perched beside me and stroked my hair. I growled and she ignored me. I thought about biting into her delicate throat. The soothing motion of soft hands slowly caressed my filthy hair. It reminded me of how my mother would do the same to calm me.
My heart aches, missing her and wishing I could curl into her lap.
The last thing I can remember is the sound of my bones shattering like rocks being pulverized into the sand. I should be dead, I know that. Instead, I was embraced by the softest touch of gossamer sheets, small kind hands, and the warmth of fur so thick and mink it made my body ache in discomfort.
I miss the kiss of cold stone, the blistering heat of volcanic caverns, the mockery of royal guards, and that lazy grin I hated so much. I miss it, all of it because even when I suffered each of those perpetually, she was still there. She was with me.
Flying ships are a thing, I guess. My stomach churns at the sway of the hull. The black sails are filled with the wind as the ship slowly descends away from the smoke-filled skies.
“We can’t cross over the lands,” Addlyn says, emerging from below deck with a long thin box. “The magic only works over the waters.” I don’t say anything, neither does the boy.
“I’ll try to get us close,” Addlyn tries again. “I have a dingy you can row to shore.”
Addlyn crosses the deck, placing the narrow box on a barrel near the mast. “Come you,” she says, holding out a hand, palm up. I hesitate, but the warm smile on her face is reassuring.
She guides me to sit on an overturned bucket as a makeshift stool. She opens the thin box and pulls out a long wooden rod with smooth vines braided down its length. At the tip of it sits a pointed gemstone, a shade of blue I’ve never seen before.
“Now, this shouldn’t hurt, okay?” Addlyn says, waiting for me to respond. I nod once, looking again and hiding the tension in my body. She holds the top of the wand to the arcane silver collar still fastened around my neck. The blonde boy healed the sharp cuts, but the silver clasp is bound to only open for the one who locked it…Veryn. A stark shiver climbs from my gut, forcing me to shift into a more comfortable position.
“Okay, here we go,” Addlyn says. Her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth. The blue crystal touches the arcane silver, and sparks fly like wildfire. I flinch, but she places a hand on my shoulder, offering a smile. It doesn’t take long before her wand cuts through the collar, letting it fall to the deck floor. I pick it up, inspecting the twist of thorns, imagining how long mother wore this collar around her neck.
/>
I toss the collar over the railing, watching it disappear into the darkened sea.
***
Hours pass until we arrive at the shore. The blonde boy rows us through the disheveled debris in the harbor, barely saying a word beyond what is necessary. I don’t mind it though, I wouldn’t even know what to say if he did.
When he finds a safe place down the shore to get off, he ties off the dingy on a large rock, keeping it from being swept back to sea before we return.
We scale the stairs that lead into the city ruin, unable to recognize it. The buildings and markets were ash or still ablaze. Crowds worked together, shouldering buckets of seawater, tossing them over the flames to douse, but nothing tamed the burning embers. Figures slowly wander the rubbled streets, crying for loved ones, pleading the gods above who never answer prayers. The blonde pulls a black stone from a pile of soot, releasing a short gasp before chuckling. A quipped sob escapes after.
I recognize the stone. It’s as dark as the pitch-black nights in Obsidian Reach without the light of a fire. Along its surface are deep fissures and cracks. It looks brittle, like a gentle breeze could threaten to dissolve it into dust. The boy grips the stone tight in his palm, turning away to wipe his face.
“We should go to the caravan. See if there are any survivors.” His voice startles me, sounding more poised than he looks. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
It takes us a while to find the caravan, mostly because streets were blocked off from fallen buildings while other districts still burned. Eventually, we break through the outer edge leading to the field where the pavilions once stood. Nearly all the caravan wagons are destroyed. Only a few farther beyond the carnival setup still stand, unscathed. I recognize the handful of people sifting through debris. It isn’t until I see the stark glimpse of white hair do I release the breath I’d been holding. Kezia sits cross-legged near the remains of her wagon, grinding herbs into a mortar and pestle. A young boy lies beside her on a makeshift cot of burlap sacks and thick waxy leaves. She spits into the mortar, giving it a final stir, and then drops the glob of green mush onto a large gash in the boy’s upper thigh.
