Scythe knew she’d have little trouble gathering the information she sought. The streets of Torian were much like those of any other city. Wider, cleaner, but still teeming with life, still buzzing with the news of the city if you knew who to ask. From the moment she had passed through the guarded gates, Scythe knew she was in her element.
She thought she’d begin by asking one of the gatemen for information, but she saw no reason to rush her investigation. It was getting dark; she would end up spending the night here in any case. She might as well enjoy it—the sights, the smells, the sounds, the crowds. And besides, she might need some coin to pry the information out of the guards, and she’d spent the last of her funds on replacing Norr’s mount.
There were other ways to loosen the guard’s tongue, of course. Once she would have considered it a waste to spend coin on something she could obtain with flirtatious banter and a suggestive manner, but since meeting Norr her perspective had changed somewhat. Now her sexuality had value beyond what she could barter it for; it was something special between her and her lover.
And after catching a glimpse of herself in a shop window, Scythe had to wonder if her charms would even be noticeable beneath the thick layer of accumulated road grime. That was another thing she’d need money for: a hotel where she could draw herself a nice, hot bath.
Not that obtaining money proved to be any trouble. She may have temporarily lost her looks, but her pickpocket skills were as sharp as ever. Within an hour she had scouted out Torian’s merchant center and successfully acquired an even dozen purses, pouches, and wallets. The coins would be more than enough to buy the information she needed, obtain a luxurious room for the night, and replenish their supplies with enough food to satisfy Norr’s enormous appetite for at least a fortnight.
Remembering the dirty, mud-caked waif she had witnessed in place of her own reflection, Scythe decided to start by getting a room and cleaning herself up. Maybe if she was lucky the information she was after could be had from the inn’s tavern and she could save herself a trip to the south gate’s watchtower.
The innkeeper eyed her filthy clothes and soiled face with suspicion, but his attitude quickly changed when she dumped a pile of gold coins in his lap and demanded the best room in the house. She had given the proprietor at least triple what the room was worth, but she considered the money to be well spent for the effect it had on the attitude of the entire staff toward her. By the time Scythe finished her bath her clothes had been laundered and dried by the fire then laid out on her bed by one of the maids. A small note on the pillow told her an extravagant meal was being prepared especially for her by the cook and would be brought to her room as soon as it was ready.
She’d offered no explanation for her apparent wealth, but given her exotic features and disheveled state on arrival, she could imagine the types of rumors the staff would already be spreading about her. An Island princess on the run from a sibling trying to steal her throne; one of the famed pirate queens who roamed the Western Seas eager to retire from the cutthroat life and live on her ill-gotten fortune; the foreign mistress of a Southern noble fleeing an abusive relationship—any or all could fit. But whatever or whoever they thought she was, they were convinced of two things: She was rich, and she was mysterious.
As she dressed in her once more clean clothes, Scythe briefly considered eating in her room, then decided against it. She wanted to mingle with the patrons at the bar to see if they had any information about the wizards. And making an appearance would add fuel to the wild speculation already swirling about her.
The innkeeper scuttled over as she descended the stairs, a look of genuine concern on his face.
“My lady,” he gushed, “I hope there is nothing wrong. Did you receive my note? I assure you, the meal will be ready in a few minutes. I apologize for the delay, but preparing a fine feast requires more time than the simple meals we usually serve.”
He spoke with the ingratiating patter of the practiced sycophant, groveling and apologizing with each word. In Callastan she had often heard such speech directed toward wealthy customers wandering market square, and it never failed to fill her with revulsion and contempt for both the speaker and the snob being addressed. Much to her surprise, she found she rather enjoyed the fawning tone when it was directed at her.
“Everything is fine,” she assured the obsequious innkeeper, trying to adopt the haughty, cultured air she associated with the rich. “However, I believe I will dine in the tavern with the common folk. I have traveled long in my journey without conversation and I am eager to learn the news of the city.”
The man bowed so low his chin nearly brushed his knees. “As you wish, my lady. Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to your table?”
Scythe did precisely that, slipping her sleek sleeved arm into the crook of the man’s elbow and accompanying him down the stairs.
Back in her room later that night Scythe was almost too excited to sleep. The evening had gone better than her wildest imaginings. She had expected a long night of gathering information, trying to track down the men she had been following since Praeton. A long and expensive night. But to her surprise, the bartender had provided her with all the information she needed completely free of charge.
It began when the innkeeper, trying to make pleasant dinner conversation, had asked if she was going to the executions tomorrow. The arrests of the strange travelers were the talk of the city, and the innkeeper was only too happy to answer her questions about the events of the day. It didn’t take long for Scythe to determine that it was indeed her quarry that had been captured by the City Lord and sentenced to death.
She had felt a brief pang of regret, knowing she wouldn’t have the pleasure of killing them herself. But when the innkeeper mentioned that the men arrested were to be publicly burned as heretics at noon tomorrow, she took some solace in the prospect of witnessing their agonizing end.
No longer burdened with the task of tracking the men down, she had spent the remainder of the night playing the part of a rich, exotic stranger with a mysterious secret to the full. When she finally retired to her bedchamber, she knew the gossip in the tavern would be as much about the mysterious Island woman staying at the inn as it would be about the coming executions.
As her head hit the pillow Scythe felt sleep quickly overwhelming her. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. She snuggled beneath the soft, warm covers and couldn’t help but feel a little guilt when she thought of Norr having to sleep on the cold, hard ground once more.
Still, she knew he would be pleased to know the hunt was over. He’d be even more pleased when he learned Scythe hadn’t killed them herself. As her mind slipped willingly into the darkness of a deep, deep sleep Scythe’s last thoughts were of how perfectly everything had worked out.
Chapter 43
Raven circled high in the clouds, ignoring the buffeting winds and shards of ice that pelted her naked flesh. Miles below, her eagle eyes had picked out a small, huddled form moving slowly along a ledge. She knew it was the one she hunted; she had tasted her fear for days now.
Raven could sense the fire of the Crown she carried, a gleaming spark in the pack slung over the mortal’s shoulder. Her instincts urged her to swoop down and seize it, plucking it from the pack and tossing the woman off the narrow ledge and into the chasm below.
But something held her at bay. There was another power here. She felt its presence on the wind, but it would be strongest in the earth and rocks beneath the mortal’s feet. This was the domain of the Guardian, one of the ancient Chaos Spawn. And Raven knew she was no match for him.
Here among the frozen clouds she was safely hidden from the Guardian’s awareness, but if she dove down to the earth he would sense her coming. Was he close enough to stop her from getting the Crown?
It would only take a few seconds. She would plummet from the sky, snatch the pack up in her claws, and fly back to Orath victorious. Or the Guardian would emerge and smite her from the sky,
snuffing out her existence.
She circled again, then screamed in frustration. She would not dive down; she would not risk her death in a single desperate act. Her prey had escaped and the Crown was beyond her reach. She wheeled on the currents, turning west, leaving the land of endless winter—and her failure—behind her.
But where could she go now? She dared not return to Orath empty-handed.
Leaving the mountains behind, she continued west for many leagues until she reached the tundra-covered steppes where the barbarian hordes ranged, safely beyond the Guardian’s reach. Coming in to land on the ground, she tilted her head back and tasted the air. There was life here—beasts she could hunt for food and mortals she could kill for sport as she waited for the Crown to return.
She coiled herself up into a ball on the ground, wrapping her black wings around her. Her dark skin began to shudder as ancient words of power spilled from her hooked beak. Seconds later her crouching, trembling form was enveloped in an orb of impenetrable black shadow. Within the darkness she screamed as the spell ripped and tore at her flesh.
After many minutes the darkness faded away, leaving Raven transformed. Her avian head and wings were gone; her naked, ebony body had taken on the form and features of an ordinary mortal woman dressed in the hides and skins of the nomadic tribes she had seen from high above.
A faint glimmer of a plan began had formed in her dark mind. The Crown could not stay with the Guardian forever. Its power was anathema to him; too long in its presence and he would sicken and die. After a few weeks, maybe a month, the Guardian would be forced to send it away, and the mortal would leave the safety of his lair.
Raven knew she could bide her time until then. She would live among the mortals of the barbarian tribes, sowing the seeds of Chaos and waiting for her chance to strike.
The cold had long since ceased to matter. The numbing pain meant nothing anymore, for Cassandra knew she was going to die. She felt the presence of her enemy high above her as she moved slowly along the ice-covered ledge. She felt it circling, she felt its hate, she felt its fear. It had found her.
She wanted to cry. Not for herself, but for her failure. She would cry for all those who had sacrificed for her, for those who had died for her, for those who had trusted her on this mission. She wanted to weep, but the tears froze at the corner of her eye, trapping the grief and sorrow inside her.
And then suddenly the presence above her was gone.
Puzzled, she turned her frostbitten face up, exposing it to the savage winds. Slowly she began to feel another presence. But this one did not fill her with sorrow or terror; it did not promise a grim and brutal death. It welcomed her, it called to her. It was close now, closer than she would have dared to believe. Through the blinding, endless blizzard she sensed the opening of a cave. She knew the presence was inside.
This presence offered hope and salvation and … and warmth.
She redoubled her pace until she stepped off the ledge and into the pleasant heat of the sheltered cave. The Guardian was waiting for her.
Tears of joy rolled down her cheeks as the Guardian wrapped his strong arms around her, drawing her into his heat and away from the cold.
Chapter 44
Scythe woke feeling completely refreshed. The weeks of exhausting travel had been swept away by a warm bath, some clean clothes, a good meal, and a single night in a real bed.
The executions were scheduled for noon, she remembered. If she wanted to have a proper view of the festivities, she’d have to arrive early. Reluctantly she climbed from the bed to wash up before leaving the comfort of the inn.
The innkeeper was waiting for her when she descended the steps. His eyes lit up when he saw her. Scythe realized he had developed a crush on her, and she hoped he wouldn’t make any inappropriate advances. She wanted to maintain the illusion of a wealthy lady of culture, but if he made a move she’d respond with a knee to the groin and the charade would likely be over.
Fortunately, the innkeeper considered her a true lady and acted with nothing but grace and courtesy.
“Good morning,” he said, bowing low. “I trust last night was to your satisfaction.”
“I slept very well,” she replied. Noticing his desperate, hopeful expression she added, “I always find a good meal and sparkling conversation put me at ease so that I may enjoy a restful night. I thank you for both, good sir.”
The innkeeper blushed, and a coquettish giggle escaped Scythe’s lips—a reaction suitable to the character she was playing, but one that was unplanned and unwelcome. Bile welled up in her throat, and suddenly she no longer enjoyed the game she had been playing. It conjured up memories of her life among the whorehouses of Callastan: adopting personalities that were not her own, subsuming her own identity into the roles her clients demanded, adopting false mannerisms to please the men—and sometimes women—who paid gold to own her, if even for one night. She hadn’t realized how easy it would be to slip back into the old practices, and the realization disturbed her.
“I’ll be leaving today,” she said to the innkeeper, not bothering with the aristocratic accent anymore.
He was too infatuated with her to notice. “Surely my lady plans to stay for the executions?” he inquired. Before she could respond he added, “There has been a third added to the list.”
“A third heretic?” Scythe was suddenly wary.
She’d been convinced the two wizards were acting alone. Was it possible they had come to meet an ally in Torian?
“Oh, no—not a heretic,” the innkeeper explained. “Last night the City Lord sent out a number of patrols to scour the area to ensure a smooth execution. One of the patrols stumbled across a barbarian spy hiding in the forest a few hours outside the city.”
It took all Scythe’s strength to keep from collapsing. She leaned heavily on the railing, trying to support her weight so the innkeeper wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong.
“They say he is a giant beast of a savage,” the man continued. “He attacked like an animal, using only his bare hands. It took the efforts of a full dozen men to subdue him!”
Gathering her courage, Scythe forced herself to ask a question.
“Where are they holding him?”
“Never fear, my lady—you’ll see this monster at the execution. The City Lord has arranged for all three to be burned together. A simple matter, really. They’ll just add another stake to the bonfire.”
Scythe half stumbled, half ran down the stairs. She shoved her way past the innkeeper as he reached out to help her keep her balance, then raced out into the street. She ran for several blocks, then doubled over and vomited up the remains of last night’s supper, much to the disgust of the people passing by.
Her stomach continued to retch up its contents until there was nothing left. She gave her mouth a slight wipe and straightened up. She still felt like throwing up. Or crying. Or screaming.
Instead, she took a deep breath and began to walk toward the town center. She pushed her emotions—guilt, rage, grief—aside for now. There would be time enough for such things later. After she rescued Norr.
The crowd was already buzzing with excitement; they had begun to gather before the soldiers had even finished setting up. In the early hours of the morning the sounds of hammers and saws and commanders shouting out orders had been heard above the drone of the ever-increasing crush of people gathering in the square. Now the construction was finished. In the very center of the square a huge stage had been built of large masonry stones, nearly ten feet high and twenty feet across. Three large, sturdy stakes jutted up from its surface, surrounded by a pile of wood faggots soaked in oil.
Nearby a massive grandstand had been erected, a place for the wealthy and politically important personages of Torian to view the execution away from the unwashed masses pressing up against the wooden barriers set out around the edges of the stage.
Scythe had scouted the area from one side to the other, committing the layout to memory so she might better exec
ute her plan to free Norr. Except she didn’t have one yet.
She had initially thought it might be possible to slip him away before the prisoners were brought forth for the execution, but she had since abandoned that idea. The dungeon where they were being held was deep in the earth beneath Lady Beethania’s mansion. A score of guards had ringed the building, and only the Gods knew how many more were inside.
Bribing them was another option she briefly considered then dismissed. If she had more time, she might be able to learn which guards were approachable and open to the idea of accepting a few coins to help one of the prisoners in their charge escape. But as it was she was likely to stumble on one devoted to duty, and she could end up being thrown in prison herself.
The blare of a horn was heard, and the crowd erupted in a wild, bloodthirsty cheer. The long blast announced the arrival of the prisoners; Scythe was out of time. At the far end of the square she saw a caravan of armed guards marching forward through the crowd. Twenty, maybe thirty in all, surrounding a large flatbed wagon. Chained to the wagon were the prisoners.
As the wagon slowly made its way through the throng of spectators, the people hurled insults at the condemned men from the crowd. They spit onto their helpless bound bodies; they hurled fruit and clumps of dirt and manure at them, screaming with the mindless hate of a true mob. The guards did nothing to stop their antics, save for drawing slightly farther away from the wagon lest they be hit by a stray missile.
Scythe shoved and pushed her way through the people, trying to gain a better look at Norr. When she finally got close enough to see the details, she nearly threw up again.
He had been stripped naked, his hands bound behind his back, his ankles tied together, and his mouth gagged. A thick metal chain had been latched onto the heavy collar around his neck and then attached to an iron ring in the bed of the wagon.
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