Ghostflame (The Dragon's Scion Book 2)

by Alex Raizman

  “What the flath is a Skimmer?” Eliert hissed, emphasizing the curse.

  “A new thing of the Alohym,” Eupheme explained in hushed terms. “They’re flying creatures, far faster than the Alohym’s vessels.”

  Eliert’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve never heard of a Skimmer before. How did you?”

  “We’ve encountered them. I think they’re new – we barely got away last time.” Eupheme shrugged.

  Tythel took a moment to look around the room. They were in the back of some store, from the sounds on the other side of the wall. In here were a large variety of crates, though none were as big as the one Tythel carried, and all were labeled with glyphs that indicated they were shipped through proper channels. She didn’t need her nose picking up whiffs of fresh paint to inform her that some of those glyphs were forgeries.

  Light came from a single arcglobe that hung near a door that led into the back of the shop. Tythel could hear a couple people talking out there, haggling over the price over a heat extractor.

  “Awfully convenient,” Eliert said, drawing Tythel back to the problem in front of her. “An Alohym invention no one else has heard of, and we get warned of by the veiled maiden who – somehow – heard them before anyone else did.” He reached to the single hand arcwand that hung at his side.

  “Eliert, what are you suggesting?” Tellias asked, tensing up himself.

  Eliert’s eyes were taking on the wild look of a trapped animal. “How in the shadow is she still holding that crate? It’s over twenty-five stones, and she’d holding it like it’s full of feathers!”

  “Just stay calm,” Eupheme said, taking a half step back, placing her foot in one of the shadows cast by the shelves that surrounded them. “Eliert, I’ve worked with you before. You know me.”

  Eliert let out a laugh that held an edge of hysteria. “Do I? Do I really, ‘Grendella’? That’s not even your real name, is it?”

  “Of course not,” Eupheme said, putting on her best soothing voice. “I’m not a flathing idiot, tossing around my real name for these kinds of purchases. Light, it’s not like Eliert’s your real name.”

  His eyes widened, and Eliert clenched his teeth.

  “Oh, shadow forsake me,” Eupheme swore, her hands going to her daggers. “It is your real name.”

  “Kill them,” Eliert hissed.

  Tythel dove forward before he even finished the word, bringing the heavy crate down to collide with his face. The impact hit the moment Eliert got the word out of his mouth, and he rocked back, the arcwand tumbling from his fingers. Something cracked under the impact, and a small part of Tythel hoped it was Eliert’s face and not some of their goods. She lashed out with her foot and kicked it away from the fight. It set her off balance, and she stumbled to the side, barely righting herself before the weight sent her tipping over.

  The two bruisers Eliert had hired had pulled out their clubs. “Don’t, you idiots,” Tythel snapped, pitching her voice as low as she dared. Eliert lay on the ground, clutching his nose and groaning in pain. “Do you want to bring the Alohym down on us?”

  “And more importantly,” Eupheme said from behind one of the thugs, “do you want to still be breathing?” There was a dagger pressed to the man’s throat, and his eyes widened. She’d taken advantage of the distraction Tythel had provided to step through the shadows, which made her usual vanishing trick even more unnerving than usual.

  The man with the dagger to his throat dropped the club, and his companion followed suit. “Good choice,” Eupheme said, not moving her dagger.

  “She broke my nose!” Eliert growled from the floor. “She broke my flathing nose!”

  “You pulled an arcwand,” Tellias said, walking over to bend down and look at the man. “You pulled an arcwand in the middle of a crowded chamber when the Alohym could have spotted us. Light, how have you survived this long selling black market goods?”

  Eliert responded with a string of curses that Tythel didn’t understand, but they sounded incendiary. “What do we do with him?” Tythel asked.

  Eupheme and Tellias shared a look, and Tythel fought down a curse of her own. This wasn’t a look she’d seen before, but it seemed to have weight and gravity behind it. I am getting better, she reminded herself, but it was a cold comfort when it seemed like everyone else on the planet could share looks that seemed to hold entire conversations in a glance.

  “We leave him,” Tellias said, and Eupheme gave a reluctant nod. “He has as much to lose as us if he goes running to the Alohym.”

  “More, really,” Eupheme amended. “As dimly as the Alohym look on people who purchase goods illegally, they take an even more unkind view to those that sell them.” That last sentence was for Eliert’s benefit, Tythel was sure. It didn’t make sense for the Alohym to prioritize the sellers of weapons over the buyers, especially with an active rebellion.

  Eliert went pale, and Tythel hoped that meant he got the message. “Fine,” Eliert spat. “But don’t come around to me anymore, you hear me? We’re done!”

  Eupheme gave Eliert a tight-lipped smile as she stepped out from behind the thug. “Believe me, Eliert, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  With that, the three of them exited the dark back room.

  ***

  The sun was setting over Emerita, sinking below the horizons and casting long shadows over the town. It glowed red as it dipped and illuminated the sky with bands of color from red all the way to indigo. Strips of unlight sapped the color along the edge of each band, ugly breakages of the normally beautiful sunset. Tythel wondered if they were new, or if she was just now noticing them. Surely they hadn’t been there back when she was living with Karjon. She’d watched the sunset numerous times from the edge of the lair, staring as intently as she dared as day bled into night.

  Dusk and dawn had always been evil times, when the world was between the Light and the Shadow and not fully under the protection of either. Now that they were revealing unlight corruption that stretched even into the sky, they showed exactly what evil was lurking between the two. The Alohym had taken the domain that had once been filled with demons and fel spirits, and unlike their predecessors, they walked Alith whenever they wished.

  They were back in Tythel and Eupheme’s room. Tellias was perched on the edge of the table, slicing off chunks of an apple with a book open across his knees. It was this year’s almanac, and he was trying to figure out if they should be wary of any storms on their path. Tythel had been laying back in her bed, Karjon’s notebook open in her lap, when the setting sun had caught her attention. She was just about to ask Tellias how long ago he’d started noticing those unlight bands, or if he even had, when they were interrupted.

  “I think I know what had Eliert so spooked,” Eupheme announced, stepping out of the shadow behind the dresser. Tellias nearly fell off the edge of the table he was sitting on. At least his stumbling covered up Tythel starting at the sudden sound.

  “Is it because you popped out of flathing nowhere?” Tellias asked, shooting Eupheme a glare. “You keep that up, you’re going to send me to the Shadow early.”

  “I’ve never managed to send someone to the Shadow just by showing up, so that would be a treat,” Eupheme said with a smile. “But I doubt it. Usually when I send someone to the shadow, I need to be a bit more direct with it.”

  Tellias sighed. “Has it ever occurred to you how unfathomably rude that is?”

  “Of course,” Eupheme said brightly. “Several times a day. But then I remember that I could not possibly care any less about rudeness, and I push it aside. Now, milord, do you want to hear what I learned or chastise me for being infinitely more amusing than you give me credit for?”

  “Of course we want to hear,” Tythel said before Tellias could needle her further. “Or at least, I want to hear, and Tellias is going to listen.” Anything’s better than the two of them bickering, Tythel added, although she kept the thought to herself. Ever since they’d left Hallith, Eupheme and Tellias had found reasons to snipe at
each other at every opportunity. Tellias thought that Eupheme should give him the respect his station deserved, and Eupheme thought Tellias was a stuck up prig that could handle being brought down a peg or twelve hundred.

  At least, that’s what each of them told her. Tythel had hoped that the tension between herself and Eupheme had been the root of the Umbrist needling Tellias at every opportunity, but it seemed that the Light didn’t favor her in that regard. Eupheme gave Tellias a deliberately childish smirk – at least, Tythel thought that’s what it was – before pulling something out of her pocket.

  “This has been going around.” She showed it to Tythel first.

  It was a Death Writ, the kind that was used in the days of the old kingdom. Tythel had seen them in history books before. They were used for the most despicable of criminals, monsters the crown could not capture or find, making sure they had no safe haven in any law abiding town or village – turning the entire kingdom into a weapon against a single individual. Anyone who managed to bring back proof of death for the subject of a Death Writ would find themselves elevated to the rank of Minor Baron – or if already of the nobility, elevated even higher – and given land and wealth to support that rank.

  At least, that was how it had been. Tythel wasn’t certain what the Alohym awarded those who managed to fill the Death Writ, and the Writ didn’t make it clear what would be awarded.

  Looking down at the paper, seeing her own face – complete with eyepatch – Tythel was left to wonder what the person who killed her would be given.

  “Why would this have made him nervous?” Tythel asked, fighting against the sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “He didn’t see my face.”

  “But the veil didn’t hide the eyepatch,” Eupheme said as Tellias glowered at the paper. “Eliert may be a worm, but he’s not a stupid worm. A Xhaod warrior maiden showing up wearing an eyepatch? With these floating around? It doesn’t take a vast intellect to determine that you were the same.”

  “We have to get moving,” Tellias said, his voice hoarse. “Even if Eliert doesn’t turn on us…how many people saw you?”

  Tythel blinked rapidly as she thought. “There was the meat vendor, and there was Eliert and his thugs, and there were several dozen people in the market, and the innkeeper, and…” Tythel sighed. “Too many. Far too many.”

  Eupheme nodded, her humor from earlier gone. “We leave after the sun has finished setting, under the domain of the Shadow. I wanted to see if we could purchase a Skitter, but…”

  Tythel agreed. “Even if we could afford one, which is questionable, it’s too big a risk. The cart will have to do.”

  “What about horses?” Tellias asked.

  “If we can’t steal any,” Eupheme said, “We’ll have to drag the cart. Now that we have a cell and mind for your armor, you and Tythel can share the burden.”

  Tellias looked like he wanted to object to being a beast of burden, but before he could, Tythel held up a hand to silence him. “Sounds from downstairs,” she said.

  The sound of arccells charging.

  “I don’t think we can wait until nightfall,” she said, her voice tense. “Writ hunters are here already, in the common room.”

  No more words were spoken as they scrambled to grab what they could before they had to choose between fight and flight.

  Chapter 25

  “This place reeks,” Ossman grumbled, peering out over the landscape.

  Armin clapped him on the back. “It’s a swamp, my friend. I have a feeling it would be a failure and offense to the Light if it smelled like roses and perfume.”

  Ossman just grunted in response, although he did give Armin a small smile of thanks. Any bit of levity was needed. The swamp that had once been Dor’nah stretched before them as far as the eye could see, clouds of fog rising sullenly from the fetid water. Armin swatted absently at some stinging insect that took a bite out of his neck. They’d become increasingly prevalent as their little group had approached the swamp.

  “I thought the princess said this was a forest,” Clarcia said from Armin’s other side, wrinkling her nose. “A dark and dismal woods or something like that.” The young Lumcaster had pretty much demanded to come, and since they were possibly dealing with undead monstrosities created by an ancient dragon, Armin certainly wasn’t going to complain about having someone who could do more than use an arcwand.

  “It probably was a forest when whatever book she was operating from was written,” Armin said, trying not to sound too defensive. From Clarcia’s grin, he wasn’t doing particularly well. “Landscapes change a lot, especially near a corrupted Lumwell.”

  Clarcia grimaced. “You’re sure this is safe to pull from?” she asked, looking up at Armin. “I mean, you nearly died when you pulled from one that was tainted with unlight.”

  Ossman grunted in agreement.

  “It’s fine,” Armin said. “Necromancy doesn’t involve anything otherworldly like Unlight. You just stick a shadow in a body and bind it in chains of light, so it has to animate the corpse. All that near a single lumwell, plus all the death that happened here…well, we’ll want to be careful because it’ll warp our casting, but it won’t harm us.”

  Clarcia nodded, though she still looked doubtful. Armin was once again reminded she’d never had the benefit of collegium education. She had to learn pretty much everything through scraps of lore and folktale, and had done damn well with just that. Once you’re properly trained, you’ll be the strongest Lumcaster to walk this era. Armin thought.

  Then again, that wasn’t as big an accomplishment as it had once been. Most powerful Lumcasters were long since dead.

  “I think we should all just take a moment to thank the Light that we took this Skitter.” Armin fought the urge to sigh. Guiart Botsaris was one of finest Skitter pilots the Resistance had and having him along to drive their commandeered vehicle was a relief. However, now that he’d said it, if they all didn’t pause to actually thank the Light he’d be sullen for the rest of the day.

  It’s not like he doesn’t have a point, Armin said as he bowed his head, hoping Ossman and Clarcia would do the same. Guiart took a moment to beam at all of them as they did before bowing his head himself. The man was two years Armin’s senior but with his round face and oversized ears looked four years his junior, an appearance not aided by his innocent devotion to the Light that Armin hadn’t even seen from an adult since the Alohym arrived.

  But it didn’t hurt to thank the Light, especially since Guiart being with them had been unintentionally fortuitous. The plan had been to take horses the entire way here, but Ossman’s had broken its leg and Clarcia’s had taken sick. Duke de’Monchy had given them Guiart to them in large part, Armin suspected, because even he found the man’s relentless proselytizing tiring.

  However, when they were down two horses, having someone who could operate a Skitter had been fortuitous. Now that they were faced with a swamp the Skitter could traverse easily but likely would have sucked horses down to their deaths, it was hard not to see it as a direct divine blessing.

  Of course, if we were really blessed, we wouldn’t need to raid the lair of Tythel’s great-great-great however many times flathing great ancestor, the terrible necromantic dragon Grejax. We wouldn’t need to because I would have figured out that flathing translation by now.

  That was the real reason Armin hadn’t fought de’Monchy harder on this expedition. The idea that somehow, Grejax’s horde had been unmolested for nearly ten thousand years was nearly impossible to countenance. But the idea they might find some of the ancient writings of Dor’nah to aid him in translating Theognis’ cypher…that, at least, Armin could be sure of.

  “Enough silence,” said another voice. “We’ve given thanks to the Light, and I’ll thank it again when we’ve started moving.”