Levee didn’t reply.
“Think about it, at least.” Tobiano shrugged and walked away, leaving Levee alone with her thoughts.
The gypsy stood there, processing her old mentor’s advice. She had hidden the truth from Sadikaye all these years for his own safety, but now she questioned whether it was the right choice. Yes, it had kept him safe, but at what price? How would Sadikaye react if he learned the truth? Had she known his sire was still alive…
Shaking her head, Levee made for a pair of tents set near the camp’s makeshift corral. Even from a distance, she could see Milo standing there, his back to her as he talked to Sadikaye and another individual sitting by the fire.
Levee’s mate was average in height with broad shoulders and a thick head of black curls he kept lassoed in a ponytail. Even with the sun fading fast and the stars poking out overhead, he still wore the same worn out cowpoke hat he had donned for decades.
Milo didn’t wear it for functionality, but rather as a token of the life they once knew in Nevaharday. Levee’s heart felt a new ache rising in her chest as she thought about those days. They could never go back, but perhaps one day soon they could come close. Maybe they could start over and show Sadikaye the life he should have had from the very start.
Levee paused as she considered that last thought. In truth, the life Sadikaye should have had was far more extravagant than anything she or Milo had ever known. It involved a palace, silk clothing, and an entirely different father than the one he had come to know.
The one he could know, if Levee took Tobiano’s advice.
Closing her eyes, Levee wiped away the tears that threatened to stain her cheeks once more. She hated how freely they came to her when she thought of the rogue prince. To think he could cause her such pain, even after all of these years...
“Lev?” Milo’s voice carried over the tall grass. His grin, white against his tan skin, beckoned her to join them, and that she did. Before her mate even had the chance to fully turn around, Levee was inside of his arms, squeezing him in a tight embrace. He stumbled back slightly, chuckling. “Well hey there, lil’ lady.”
“Missed you,” the words slipped quietly from her lips as she pulled away just enough to look up at her mate. He winked, his thick, black lashes contrasting against the fiery hue of his ocher gaze. The gesture ignited a smile despite the heaviness anchored in Levee’s chest. She reached up and tugged on one of the black curls that had escaped the loop of his ponytail. “It’s good to be back.”
“Ma!” Sadikaye’s voice pulled her toward the fire where her son sat, a young rahee with strikingly elven features sitting rather closely on his left. Deley was her name. Levee recognized her as Jaspur’s apprentice, whom she met when they first joined with the re’shahna’s camp. “How did it go today? Any news?”
Levee’s smile faded, drawing Milo’s concern. His arm draped around her shoulders, pulling her in to his side. “Everythin’ okay, love?”
“Nothing worth sharing…” she shrugged, and Sadikaye shrugged back before returning to the conversation he seemed to be having with Deley. Milo, however, wasn’t so convinced.
“Something happened, didn’t it?” he whispered.
Levee nodded, leaning deeper into his one-armed embrace. “A lot of things, none of them good.”
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Not really.”
She regretted her words the moment they slipped out. Milo’s arm pulled away, his ears dipping low against his hair. Rubbing the light black scruff on his chin, he tried his best not to sound accusatory. “It wouldn’t happen to involve him, would it?” His voice was quiet, so as not to draw Sadikaye’s attention. “I can talk to ‘em, y’know. Make sure he keeps his distance.”
Levee shook her head. “Jaspur and I have to work together, Milo, and we can’t do that if we’re busy ignoring each other.” She crossed her arms and smirked. “Besides, it’s not so much him directly as it is the complications his presence brings.”
Milo frowned. Levee’s life wasn’t the only one complicated by the royal rogue’s return. Although he was never one to be jealous, Milo was not blind to the fact he was Levee’s second choice. His relationship with her came after the rogue’s, and only because they both had believed he was dead.
He cleared his throat. “What kind of complications are we talkin’ about here?”
“What if he finds out how Sadikaye came about?” she whispered, ignoring the evident tension in her mate’s voice. “What do you think he will do?”
Milo snorted. “C’mon, Lev. If he hasn’t pieced that together yet, he’s even dumber than I thought.”
“Okay, then assuming he does know… What if he tells Sadi?”
Milo tensed, his brow furrowed as he stared into the fire, contemplating that reality. He didn’t just help Levee raise the boy. In his eyes, Sadikaye was his son. The lack of blood between them didn’t matter. He had been there from day one. Levee knew he was wary of losing her to Jaspur, but it hadn’t crossed his mind that his relationship with Sadikaye was also under threat. “I s’pose we’ll cross that hurdle if it comes.”
“When it comes.”
Milo shook his head, his lips pressed together in disgust. “The rogue ran away from bein’ king,” he smirked, “among other things. Tellin’ Sadikaye the truth would mean havin’ to face the fact that he’s a father. You really think he’ll do that?”
Levee’s eyes started to water again, triggering Milo’s guilt. The two looked at one another, and they realized just how much tension had grown between them within a matter of days. They were no strangers to disagreements, but Milo and Levee had always found a way to work through them. This challenge, however, felt impossible on both fronts. Neither of them were certain how they would deal with it, nor did they want to address the massive wedge that was Jaspur.
“I’m gonna take a walk. Watch the kids for me?” Milo nodded his head toward Sadikaye. “I’m afraid he’s becomin’ quite a natural with the ladies.”
Levee nodded, too tired to argue. Perhaps it was best they waited until Sadikaye was asleep before discussing the matter further. The last thing they needed was for Sadikaye to overhear them. She gave Milo’s shoulder a faint squeeze when he passed by her. “Like father, like son…”
Milo said nothing as he disappeared into the shadows beyond the fire’s reach. It was getting darker now, and cool, so Levee drew her cloak around her shoulders and took a seat adjacent to Sadikaye by the fire.
Her son was too engrossed in his conversation with Deley to acknowledge her just yet. The way he smiled at the young half-elf reminded Levee of Jaspur and Milo. Both of them had charisma, as well as a way with women she hoped Sadikaye would be wise enough to avoid.
From what she could hear, the two were swapping sparring stories—each one just barely showing up the other as they tried to subtly determine who was the better of the two.
Deley was a pretty thing and skinny, with long brown hair and eyes that matched. Her features were sharp and narrow like most elves, but her ears were definitely rahenyan. There was something familiar about her mannerism, too, but Levee couldn’t place her finger on it.
She had asked Deley about her parents once. The half-elf smiled shyly and said her mother was one of Whitewood’s historians and her father was a Nevahardan soldier killed many years prior. She revealed no names, nor details. The half-elf preferred her cloak of secrets, much like the rogue she had accepted as her teacher.
Then again, who was Levee to judge? The way Deley interacted with Sadikaye wasn’t like someone with an agenda. She seemed innocent and jovial, with more interest in a good joke than Sadikaye’s backstory. Perhaps she was exactly as she seemed to be. Tonight reminded Levee they all had their secrets.
She only hoped that Sadikaye wouldn’t come to regret hers.
The Assassin
Outside of the rebel camp, within a copse of trees overlooking the valley, a man named Darthek crouched on a pair of raw knees, his wrists bound
in an uncomfortable cross behind his back. His shoulders sagged as he watched the blood from his lips patter onto the dirt with mute resignation.
Above him, a horse-ear wearing black and red war paint fell into a slow and calculated pace, his hand clenched around a dirk that Darthek would surely become acquainted with before long. The man didn’t need an introduction to know what kind of rahee was interrogating him. The amount of golden trinkets he wore and the brutality of his methods told him this was a tchaka; a southern gypsy from the cutthroat corners of his home city, Sarrokye.
Yes, it would be another unpleasant day at the hands of this one. Not that it mattered. Even as Darthek erupted into a fit of coughs that expelled more blood than he cared to see, he would not provide his interrogator with any answers. Though he was exhausted, his limits stretched and tested, he was determined to die unbroken.
For forty years, Darthek had been an assassin. Raised by a guild of miscreants, he was bred to be nothing more than the means to another’s end. Whatever emotions had once made him human were extracted during his early years of training to become the perfect weapon. He would not break under pressure, no matter how much was piled on.
“Still not talking, are we?” the tchaka crouched before his prisoner, a crooked smile splayed across his lips. His canary eyes held no mercy. They bore fiercely into Darthek, promising continual agony until he broke his silence. “No matter. I have another approach in mind. I’m certain you’ll feel more motivated to speak when we’re done—if you live through it. For all of your bravery, I can tell you are near your limits. You shall either cave or die. The choice is yours. Either way matters not to me.”
The assassin met the tchaka’s cruel stare with unwavering indifference. In truth, Darthek cared little about whether he lived or not. His existence was more a product of keen survival instincts than any zeal for life itself. He merely existed like an animal exists within the wild. If the assassin died at the hands of this rahee, it was nothing more than nature taking its course. Thus, his torturer’s words chilled him not at all.
The tchaka grabbed the assassin by the roots of his hair, yanking Darthek’s head up and back so that the man was forced to sit up straight. The assassin growled, but otherwise said nothing as his torturer cocked his dagger back like a viper with fangs bared.
“Wait, Qualle.”
The command froze the tchaka’s hand. Snarling in frustration, he released Darthek who immediately crumpled to the ground. The assassin winced, his cheek sliding against the dirt as he tried to catch a glimpse of who intervened.
What he saw was quite possibly the smallest horse-ear he had ever seen. Barely breaking five feet, he had a birthmark that stretched over his left eye and a pair of furry ears that poked out from beneath a shock of flaxen hair. Yet in spite of his diminutive stature, he seemed to have a high rank of authority.
The tchaka Darthek now knew as Qualle sheathed his dagger and greeted the newcomer, his hand extending from his forehead out before him in an arching gesture he assumed to be a show of respect. “Patchi, this is an unexpected surprise. What brings you to the outliers’ camp?”
Patchi? Darthek pushed through the pain that clouded his mind, focusing solely on his hearing so that he could glean what was going on. He had heard that name before. The king of Velagray had labeled Patchi as his rival, which meant this particular horse-ear was a re’shahna of significant influence.
The assassin took this into consideration. He was wise enough not to underestimate this one based on appearance alone. Simply knowing Shadow viewed him as a worthy adversary put Darthek on his highest guard. He wondered what this small leader was capable of.
“What have you learned from the assassin thus far?” the re’shahna asked.
Qualle’s mirth disappeared beneath a disgusted frown. “Nothing. This human is clearly trained to withstand torture. If you ask me, I say we kill him. It will save us time and spare our rations.”
The chieftain rubbed his chin, clearly not keen on that idea. Was he the soft sort, then? A kind soul who refrained from killing unless it was absolutely necessary? Darthek viewed such emotions and ideals to be weaknesses. If Patchi was of a gentle nature, perhaps he could exploit it.
“May I speak with him?” the chieftain asked.
Qualle gave an apathetic shrug before nodding toward Darthek, who was still lying on the ground. “Be my guest.”
The assassin watched as Patchi approached until the horse-ear’s boots halted inches from his face. Drawing his gaze up toward the re’shahna’s visage, Darthek waited to see what the infamous chieftain would do.
“Are you able to sit up on your own?” the chief asked in a tone that was neither friendly nor threatening.
Darthek shifted his knees back under him and began to push. Slowly, he rose, his face tight with pain as torn muscles strained to do their job. Sweat dripped down his cheeks as he sat up, his breathing short and quick. It was by will alone he managed to upright himself once more; a fact that did not go unnoticed beneath the watchful gaze of the re’shahna chieftain.
“You are contracted by Shadow, yes?” he asked.
Darthek didn’t answer.
“You may speak freely with me. This is not an interrogation.”
“You are the leader of the band of rebels who kidnapped Shadow’s prisoner,” Darthek rasped.
“Freed, not kidnapped,” Patchi corrected, “but yes. Melah and I have a history that stretches back to her youth. I knew she would ally with me if I liberated her, so I did just that.”
The assassin narrowed his eyes upon this unusual re’shahna. “What is the purpose of this alliance?”
“What do you think?”
Darthek didn’t trust Patchi. He knew this conversation held a motive, but he wasn’t sure what it was just yet. The last thing he desired was to reveal too much information and render himself useless. At the same time, his silence wasn’t doing him any favors. He knew his body well enough to realize he would not survive another night of the tchaka’s torture. Darthek needed to make himself useful if he was to escape an early death.
“I assume you intend to overthrow Shadow, but how?” the assassin inquired. “I have seen your numbers. You are too small to pose any real threat to Velagray. What’s more, you have no insight into your enemy. Without eyes inside the castle, any move you make against him will be a blind one.”
“Are you making an offer, assassin?”
“I suspect you are seeking one.”
Patchi chuckled. “You are a clever man, able to keep your mind and wits about you even when your body is nearly spent. I admire your discipline, but the end result of our efforts will be the same whether you assist us or not.”
“And what result is that?”
“Extinguishing Shadow’s unnatural life.”
“A bold claim,” Darthek croaked before giving into another bout of violent coughing.
Patchi waited patiently for the fit to pass before speaking again. “Not so bold when you know the truth of Shadow’s current state. The king you have contracted your services to is at the height of his strength, but also the peak of his curse.
“In an effort to achieve immortality and enhance his magical abilities, he completed a perverse version of the Awakening ritual. The cost was his sanity. Shadow has fought the demons in his mind for centuries, but at long last, his mental fortitude is waning. I suspect now he is beginning to understand his inability to keep a sound mind. We are doing him a favor by putting him down before the madness takes hold.”
Darthek showed no reaction to Patchi’s tale. “In the brief time I spoke with Shadow Silverhorn, he showed no symptoms of madness. Do you expect me to take your word for such an extreme claim?”
“Not at all,” Patchi replied. “I will allow you to witness it for yourself.”
Darthek cocked his head.
“You are a logical creature. If I release you, and you return to Shadow in attempt to form a new contract, he will want to glean whatever he can from
your imprisonment among us. His paranoia over my intentions will spur him to keep you close to ensure you do not betray him. When that happens, you will see firsthand that my claims are true.”
“You would allow me to return to your enemy having seen and learned all that I have?” Darthek asked, doubtfully. “That hardly seems like a favorable scenario for you.”
“Your previous assumption that I am blind to Shadow’s movements was practical, but false. I have eyes and ears both within and beyond Velagray. What you see, what you say, and what you do will not go unnoticed by my spies. I am fully confident in our ability to keep an eye on you.”
Darthek was uncertain how much of Patchi’s statement was valid and how much of it was a bluff. However, the very possibility that it could be true would force the assassin to behave as if it was. The chieftain knew this.
Darthek’s initial suspicion that Patchi would be easy to manipulate was quickly being dowsed. Shadow’s rival was not a naïve idealist, but a brilliant strategist. That much was clear.
“What is it you want me to do, exactly?”
“Watch Shadow. Keep an eye on him. When my agents find you—and they will—give them the information they require.”
“What makes you think I will betray Shadow?”
Patchi shrugged. “You are no ally of his. You have no loyalty, no ties to the king of Velagray other than commissioned work. Yet I assure you the moment you leave my camp, you will be hunted. Shadow has soldiers searching for you now, and he will not let you go once he has discovered you live. He will turn your agreement for service into servitude. I offer you your life now as well as your freedom once we slay the king of Velagray. All I ask in exchange is information.”
Darthek raised a curious brow. “What makes you think I will not just disappear and make for a new life in a new kingdom the moment you let me go?”
“Because neither Shadow nor I will let you.”
The assassin scowled. “I see.”
“Try not to look so disappointed. You may not see it now, but I offer you hope in a rather hopeless situation. When I release you, Qualle will guide you to Shadow’s search party. You will say you managed to escape the tchaka holding you captive, and that you must relay what you’ve learned to the king of Velagray immediately.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 82
