Well. That must have been rather demoralizing. An unexpectedly swift plummet from liberated to invalidated.
I’m sorry, Lady Verrikose. Some of us just have more of a lasting effect than others.
Neither of them would ever just come right out and trade their vicious thoughts, of course. It would be far too unladylike. And so they resigned themselves to a sickly-sweet charade of false kindness, wishing each other pleasant days and concealing their fangs behind tight-lipped, pretty smiles.
The weight of that charade – and countless others – always melted off her shoulders as soon as she was through those gates and free of the palace grounds. Back into the streets she sprinted, wild and free again in an instant, reveling in the feeling she was a bit sad to recognize as…nostalgia.
A sentiment from the past.
How long had it been? How long since she forsook that once-so-committed way of life, turning her back on the breathtaking adventure and eccentric glamour no one else would ever understand?
The naturalness of it came back in an instant, coursing through her veins like it had never left. The hominess of the streets, the comforting embrace of the night, the elation of running as if the hounds of hell were on her heels.
How had she ever sat in a room listening to lectures for hours on end, stifled by dresses and manners and rules?
The dark secrets she kept rose inside her like old friends, picking up right where they left off. Memories of donning the shadows like a cloak and dispersing into the night, bounding through the city as if it were one big obstacle course and leaping between ledges like she could fly. Chasing danger as if it were a scared little rabbit and she a ravenous, insatiable demon.
And then the opposite extreme – dancing on the rooftops under a midnight sky, fluid and graceful and deeply sensuous.
The allure of that life was never something she would be able to divorce herself from, she realized – and had to wonder how long she could hold the restless yearning for it at bay.
Had to wonder how long it would be before someone went looking for her at all her usual palace haunts and found her gone without a trace, no word of explanation or goodbye. Just vanished, like she was prone to do, as they all should have expected.
*
The king made a public appearance in Fairoway’s central square one day, making several announcements of average significance that were really only an excuse to get out amongst the people and greet his subjects.
Despiris and Lady Verrikose joined him for the occasion, standing side by side in the background while Isavor addressed the people. They fanned themselves in the warm sunshine, Slasher clinging to his lady’s arm under the shade of her parasol.
Lady Verrikose was garishly adorned in a gown of gold satin and lace, wearing matching gloves up to her elbows that Despiris personally thought impractical in the heat. Despiris wore pale blue silk, and a matching hat topped her elaborate pile of brunette curls. Although she also sported gloves, hers were breathable white lace and didn’t surpass her wrists.
The afternoon dragged on, until at last the king had finished his speeches and exhausted his greetings, announcing that regrettably he must retire while there was yet time to ask for the gods’ blessing on every lovely soul he had met that day.
The people gradually cleared from the square, mulling away to go about their business. Despiris and Lady Verrikose climbed with relief into their shared carriage, and Despiris watched out the little curtained window as the assembly thinned and dispersed.
She was staring absently, distracted by thoughts of how she would spend her evening once back at the palace, when something about the figure standing in the path of her unfocused gaze nagged at her. She came out of her daze to really look at him, and her heart skipped a beat in recognition.
The Master of the Shadows stared back at her, unmoving as the crowd moved around him.
What was he doing here? Amidst all these people? In broad daylight?
Of course, no one except her would ever know it was him.
His face…his face stirred her guilt to life again. There was something hard in his gaze. Something…accusing. Angry. For a moment, Despiris felt a flutter of wariness. Had she ever seen Clevwrith truly angry before?
What might come of it?
The carriage lurched abruptly, starting forward across the cobblestones. Despiris’s vantage point shifted, cutting off her view of the Shadowmaster.
Suddenly she wished for the impractical elbow-length gloves, trying to tug her short lace hems up to cover the gooseflesh rising up her arms.
“That was him, wasn’t it?” Lady Verrikose asked, drawing Despiris’s eyes to her. “The real Shadowmaster.” Despiris’s heart stopped, her mind racing to come up with a smooth comeback to counter such conjecture. But Lady Verrikose’s expression was smugly knowing, warning her not to bother denying it. “You are not the Master of the Shadows at all, are you? No. The real legend got away that night, as he always has and probably always will. You are nothing but his apprentice.”
Partner, Despiris wanted to correct. But there was too much truth in Lady Verrikose’s words. The truth that she would never be Clevwrith. The truth that she was puppeteering a ruse that couldn’t last.
“He is still out there,” Lady Verrikose declared in a way that sent a chill even down Des’s spine, as if she had anything to fear from her mentor. “And he is none too happy with you, is he?”
Despiris didn’t reply, staring back at the savvy woman with what she could only hope was a mask of cool apathy. But she couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that this woman’s telepathic abilities weren’t limited to infiltrating the minds of the lowly beasts of the earth – extending with alarming dexterity into the minds of humans as well.
Lady Verrikose tsk-ed her tongue, first as if scolding Despiris for her naughty secret, but the nuance shifted as if to emphasize something unfortunate. “Knowing he is yet loose…I will not sleep well tonight.”
For some reason, Despiris wouldn’t either.
Lady Verrikose gazed out the window as if she could still see Clevwrith in the square from her opposite-facing seat. “Woe be unto the rest of the world, sleeping unknowing in their beds,” she drawled darkly. “The Master of the Shadows is angry.”
22
Disturbing the Peace
“The goal was to catch a criminal. Someone going a long way toward renaming this the Age of Terror.” – King Isavor to Despiris, only a short time ago.
*
Clevwrith was angry. When he heard about the king’s appearance in Banor Square, he’d gone on the slightest chance that Despiris might attend, desperate to get a look at her.
And she had been there, a wallflower in the background, standing alongside that despicable Lady Verrikose as if they were fast friends.
What had they done to her?
Ruined her, that was what. Transformed her into a watered-down, delicate creature, a shell of what she once was.
She had stood there like a ghost of herself, a prisoner of lace and civility, fanning herself mechanically in the heat.
What have you DONE TO HER?! Clevwrith roared within himself, yanking out a knife and hurling it with aimless fury at the wall. It whistled swiftly through his chamber and embedded itself with a thud somewhere in the dark.
He couldn’t let this happen. Couldn’t let his fierce Des be reduced to a pretty face in a dress, little more than an ornament in the background.
A small voice told him there might be more to it than that, but he didn’t listen. He couldn’t stand seeing her this way.
Deciding to go her own way and explore her options in the world was one thing. But to leave him for this? This…this degradation? This devolution?
He could not let them stifle her. Could not let her lose herself.
My Despiris is not to be tamed, he insisted, his righteous anger building.
And if they breathed a sigh of relief at night believing they had subdued the villain in charge, they were about t
o learn the hard way they had left the scariest devil free in the streets.
*
The next few weeks were a nightmare. The Master of the Shadows wreaked havoc.
*
Lord Mosscrow was hatching designs, once again, to bring down the treacherous Shadowmaster. And this time, he had the full support of the king. Whatever he needed, it was to be granted. No limitations, no questions asked.
Because the Spylord was becoming increasingly dangerous, not the kind of character the king could allow to run loose any longer.
The trickster’s antics simply could no longer be tolerated.
It had been one of the more deflating moments of his life when Lady Verrikose revealed that the girl they had under their wing was not, in fact, the Master of the Shadows as she claimed. Crow had muttered under his breath to himself for the rest of the day, kicking himself for not suspecting it sooner.
Of course it was not the Shadowmaster they had in their custody. It had been too easy. And swapping identities was just the kind of trickery those smarty-pants con artists would pull.
Oh well, he had finally decided, surprising even himself with his resignation. We will just have to start over.
Perhaps his failure and humiliation were put aside because he had finally attained the satisfaction of being granted full leeway to handle the matter however he saw fit. It was high time. The whole ‘magical movement’ to assist in the Spylord’s capture had been a groundbreaking step in the right direction, but to be granted full authority to hunt the bastard how and when and where he deemed appropriate…
Well, after all this time, it was worth savoring. He only wished the king had seen his way of things sooner. Before the menace had escalated.
For the Master of the Shadows was out of control. There had been too many unacceptable forms of harassment, of late. Too many blatant provocations.
The Spylord had sent poems addressed to no one in particular at the palace; poems which took ominous turns and became threats by the end.
He’d spread terrifying rumors about the erstwhile ambiguous agenda of the Shadowmaster becoming alarmingly corrupted by bouts of insanity, leaving everyone to wonder how far his antics would escalate.
He’d left his signature on thresholds and doors and fountains and shop signs, sometimes rendered with ink per tradition but just as often scorched or carved.
Somehow, he’d managed to wreck, dismember, or otherwise maim nearly every statue in the city – a very clear statement putting an end to the animation of any more dreaded stone minions.
He’d snuck into the royal graveyard where he shamelessly replaced fresh flowers placed at gravestones with black roses.
He’d made trespassing a full-time gig until a staggering and widespread number of citizens reported sightings on any given night.
He’d clogged sewers with missing gowns from the royal laundry.
He’d painted Fairoway’s main boulevard black with ash.
He’d targeted nobles’ estates which were patrolled by guard dogs, disturbing the animals and encouraging them to bark and bay and howl all through the night.
He’d stolen keys to important gates that required frequent access.
He’d scorched black all the roses in the royal garden, and burned the mulberry tree – which, somehow, he must have known was the king’s favorite.
And he’d shredded the king’s favorite pillow. Feathers everywhere. All over his Majesty’s royal bedchamber.
Needless to say, everyone knew well that the Master of the Shadows was angry. As he disturbed the peace making his statements of displeasure, Fairoway grew increasingly uneasy.
After the last seven meetings of the royal council had been disturbed by an obnoxious presence that could only belong to the Shadowmaster, the Lord Advisor had decided it wasn’t safe to discuss anything of importance anymore. So in order to discuss the rather sensitive subject of catching the menacing spy once and for all, Crow had hatched the idea to scrap the usual meeting location for an unpredictable alternative – a small, abandoned, ramshackle dwelling just like a thousand others clustered together on the outskirts of the Cob. Hopefully, it was the last place the Shadowmaster would expect a royal council meeting to take place.
Crow and Osprey had departed the palace dressed as servants to avoid detection. Shortly, Lady Verrikose would arrive dressed the same, dragging the pitiful Cetas Ophelious, stammering in unwilling protest, along with her. The poor, gifted little man was not comfortable with the role he had been charged with, more afraid of his own creations than the intended targets were, it seemed. Crow had wondered if the fellow might soil his underpants the first time he brought a gargoyle to life, and the second time had been mostly sure that he had.
But unless Ophelious wanted to return to his less than ideal situation in Terryvale, he would learn to love his terrifying beast-spawn, or at the very least accept that if they were the spawn of the devil, then he was the devil.
Also to be in attendance were the Captain of the Guard and two of his Majesty’s most trusted agents from his personal network of spies.
Eager for their arrival, Crow paced the tiny house, forcing Osprey to sidle out of the way every time he crossed from one side to the other. ‘Eager’ might have been the wrong word. Anxious might have been more like it. But he refused to admit any second thoughts about this meeting going off without a hitch. It was the essence of discreet, the last place the Shadowmaster would expect them to gather.
A bunch of nobles, congregating in the slums? Unheard of. And so close to the locale suspected as the Shadowmaster’s own haunt? Too risky. Too bold.
*
Too risky and too bold, indeed.
For nothing went on in the Cob that the Shadowmaster didn’t know about. It was his haunt, might as well have been a scene in a snowglobe on his shelf, stared into like a crystal ball of constant knowing.
Instead of the Lord Advisor’s expected allies, that pesky, relentless shadow arrived next on the scene.
Clevwrith listened for voices down through the chimney shaft, masked against the smoke that wafted up around him. When he’d heard enough to identify the Lord Advisor and that bumbling assistant Osprey, he withdrew a small pouch from his bag of tricks. Spilling its powdery contents into a gloved hand, he sifted through it almost experimentally before dumping it down the chimney.
Inside, the fire went dead as if a great bulk had fallen to smother the flames.
“…moreover–” Mosscrow’s words cut short as if severed by the slice of a knife. Clevwrith imagined him analyzing the poof of stirring ash with a critical, suspicious eye. And, having no interest in being discreet that night, Clevwrith stood to deliver a series of purposeful footsteps across the roof.
He wanted them to know he was here.
“Is that–” Osprey’s stricken voice pinched out.
“The Master of the Shadows,” Mosscrow murmured in incredulity.
Really, he shouldn’t be surprised anymore.
An echo of bold footsteps accentuated the Lord Advisor striding across the single-room house to throw open the door, letting in the night.
“My lord…” Osprey objected, obvious alarm pigmenting his voice.
Mosscrow ignored his assistant. “He’s on the roof,” he announced, as if it needed to be. His voice, brightening as if no longer muffled by surrounding walls, suggested he had exited the house. Something like Osprey scrambling after him followed, that paranoid sod not one to want to be left alone in a house presenting as haunted.
“Watch your step, you imbecile,” Mosscrow snapped at his aid. “My cloak is not a rug to be trampled by your clobbering feet!”
Osprey mumbled an apology.
The door creaked and slammed shut in a stray gust of wind.
Convenient, Clevwrith thought in amusement, for it was not an effect he had planned.
Having lured the two men outside, the Spylord set into action. He placed one gloved hand on the rim of the chimney and swung his legs in. He droppe
d like a rock but landed silently as a cat on a layer of ash, legs splayed to avoid the firewood in the center. Even masked, he had to hold his breath to starve out the sneeze that threatened to burst out of him.
But there was no time to wait for the ash to clear. In one swift motion, he swirled his cape off his shoulders and cast it onto the ground beyond the hearth to prevent his boots from staining the floor. Then he strode purposefully out across the makeshift rug and into the single room of the house.
Atop a table at the center of the room, several scrolls lay queued for presentation, just within reach at the end of his cape. He had planned to swipe them and depart as swiftly as he’d come, no sign of his presence left behind, but… On sudden impulse, he stepped just clear of the cape’s edge, leaving a single set of sooty footprints isolated in the middle of the room.
As if he had materialized there, he fancied, and the footprints were made of shadow rather than soot.
With a flash of his hand, the Shadowmaster swiped the scrolls off the table, pinching them flat to bite between his teeth as he reached into his bag of tricks. Deftly extracting his signature kit, he spritzed the crest and stamped his mark onto the tabletop. As a last-minute touch, he removed the Lord Advisor’s own quill from its inkwell near the edge of the table, blotting a few drops of ink around the sigil and then artfully arranging the quill alongside it so it looked like he’d rendered the detailed masterpiece by hand.
Then he retreated back across his cape. The Lord Advisor’s papers still in his teeth, he flourished his cape up off the floor and ducked into the chimney from whence he had materialized. Pressing his back against one side of the cramped shaft, he raised a booted foot with a well-gripping tread to the other side. Then, bracing himself, he climbed.
It was slow, awkward going, every muscle rigid and straining, but nothing he hadn’t practiced a dozen times over. At the top he paused, thinking he understood what a moth felt like squeezed too long in its cocoon. He wanted nothing more than to erupt from his stifling position, but there was one last thing…
Girl of Rooftops and Shadows (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 1) Page 21
