Then she flicked the whip, catching him on the cheek. A shallow cut. He could tell that she had avoided his eyes on purpose.
He touched the thin streak of blood.
She lunged at him while he was distracted, drawing a knife from her belt. He hadn't seen the short blade, wasn't prepared for it. He turned slightly out of reflex, and the knife barely missed his neck. Then he ducked under her short arms and grabbed her by the shoulders. Rammed her up against the tree again. Pushed the Viper to her throat.
She dropped the small blade. “I give!”
He released her, barely even panting. It was somewhat disappointing. He had hoped she would be better than this.
“You’ll never win a Name with these skills,” he said.
She avoided his eyes. She knew the truth. “I know,” she said quietly. “What should I do?”
Savant couldn’t answer. He could only look at her, that peculiar feeling swelling in his chest again—pity.
There was a sudden crackling in the underbrush.
They both snapped to attention, then Savant grabbed Bug and shoved her back behind the tree. They crouched low among the roots, breathing lightly, painfully alert. They shared a wide-eyed glance. If someone caught them with the sacred weapons....
The crackling in the underbrush continued. Savant turned slightly, angling his head to see between the leaves. At first he couldn't make out much... but then he caught a shuffle of movement. A peculiar glow seeped through the ferns, like a highly concentrated patch of sunlight. It shifted across the forest floor.
The light moved closer.
Savant felt his mouth turn dry. He had heard tales of such a light, but he could scarcely believe his eyes. He could feel the light, too. It vibrated against his skin in an annoying, buzzing way. The hair on his arms stood on end.
Only one of the races glowed in such a way....
There was the low mumble of speech. He turned his head again, straining his ears.
“We only need one,” he overheard. “Don't put yourself at risk.” The voice was small and distant, as though held in a cup.
He shared another glance with Bug. She had overheard it, too.
“I know. I'm waiting for a young one. An adult will cause too much trouble.” This voice was far stronger than the last, only a few yards away.
Savant gripped the handle of the dagger. The Viper was still new in his hands, yet it felt comfortable, familiar. It gave him courage. With a slight nod to Bug, he crept around the tree and darted forward, staying low to the ground, using the underbrush as cover. His footsteps were absolutely silent; not even a crunched leaf. Stealth was the first lesson of an assassin.
Bug scampered after him, mimicking his every move.
The light was fully visible through the trees. It hurt to look at it. Savant found himself averting his eyes, even as he crept closer. He wanted to hear more of the conversation....
He paused again behind a thick copse of trees. The light was brightest on its opposite side, perhaps only a few feet away. In this position, he could hear the conversation clearly.
“Make sure you're not followed,” the thin, hollow voice said.
“Don't worry,” the person replied, soft and melodious, his words dripping with nectar.
Suddenly, the light vanished.
Bug let out a small breath, barely audible. Her hand clutched at Savant's sleeve.
Then a shadow fell over them.
Both savants turned, their expressions guarded. The man who stood behind them was strange indeed, not of the Hive. His coloring was far too exotic. Pale, pale hair, like the white sands of the beach. A white tunic and fawn-colored breeches. His skin held a strange glow, barely visible. In his hand was a small white stone.
“Who are you?” Savant asked. He raised the Viper before him, brandishing it viciously.
“Just passing through,” the man replied. He stood only three paces away. A strange smile was on his face: cruel and sharp. Then he turned to Bug. “Here, little one. Catch this.” He tossed the stone.
Savant's hand shot into the air, trying to intercept the throw, but Bug was too fast. She easily snatched the stone, perhaps out of reflex.
“No!” Savant yelled.
Bug screamed.
White light flashed, exploding outward like the a miniature star. The force of it actually pushed Savant back, almost toppling him to the ground. The whiteness pierced his eyes and he clamped them shut, ears ringing, pain splitting his head like an ax.
“Don't look at it!” Savant yelled. His eyes were tightly shut, his head buzzing from the intensity. “It's a sunstone! It will blind you!”
“How considerate,” that melodious voice spoke again.
Savant didn't hesitate. He lunged toward the voice, the Viper singing in his hand. He plunged the blade into thin air, missing his target, but he didn't stop—no, he kept lunging, kept listening. The handle felt hot, as though warmed over a fire.
Savant now recalled lessons about the sunstones, about bright lights and white-haired strangers. He had heard all of it while studying the War of the Races. He should have thought of it sooner, but he had never heard of a Harpy traveling so close to the Hive. This stranger was a child of Wind and Light, one of the First Race—and a sworn enemy of the Dark God.
And a sunstone was not just a pretty pebble. It was a dangerous magical weapon used for hunting and killing the Dark God's children.
“Where are you?” Savant roared, anger rushing through him like hot fire. He could hear scuffling in the underbrush and a dull moan. Bug's voice. He followed it. His vision was beginning to clear and he blinked his eyes repeatedly. He could now make out vague shadows and outlines, imprints of leaves and branches.
There, to his left. The Harpy!
He lunged again, knife plunging, and this time hit flesh. He sank the dagger deep into the leg of the Harpy. The man let out a cry of pain and outrage, then whirled, backhanding Savant across the face. The blow was fierce and Savant stumbled backwards again, still sensitive to the light, hardly able to focus his eyes.
The sunstone flashed again. It felt like having his face thrust in a fire. He cried out, throwing up an arm to shield himself, dropping his dagger. The ground tipped—his head swam.
He tried desperately to recover, to open and focus his eyes. He could see Bug—or at least, he thought it was Bug—scrambling through the bushes, biting and scratching at her captor. She was screaming in pain, smoke rising from her hand. The sunstone was burning through her skin and into her flesh, where Savant knew it would fester. The light would bind her limbs and steal her senses. Eventually, it would burn out her eyes.
He was overwhelmed. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins; his head pounded. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to follow them through the forest, tried to listen, but his ears were consumed by an intense ringing. The ground kept tilting beneath him.
He fell to his knees, curling up in pain.
The light grew and grew... and then faded....
* * *
An hour later, he came to. He hadn't expected to still be alive.
The forest was empty. After a brief, desperate search, he uncovered the Named weapons, the whip and the dagger. That eased some of his tension, but he was still worried about Bug. Assassins do not worry. But he could not quell the sense of guilt and panic.
A few scuffs marred the dirt, but besides that, there was no sign of Bug or the white-haired stranger. He searched for a trail and found a few white feathers littered in the underbrush, but they led to nowhere. No path, no evidence. Upon examining the feathers, Savant wasn't surprised. Harpies could fly. How did one follow the air?
There was nothing more he could do. He took the Named weapons back to the shrine, mounting them carefully on the wall. His ears were still ringing, his eyes sensitive. In the dark, cool recesses of the cavern, he knelt by the green water and plunged his head into its cold depths, allowing the current to run through his hair. The peaceful shadows slowly permeate
d his mind, calming his heart, soothing his skin.
Finally he sat back, taking deep, moist breaths. He felt numb and uncertain. Should he address the counsel of the Grandmasters? If he told the them about the Harpy in the woods, they might gather a team of huntsmen and track down Bug, rescue her....
Or perhaps not. The Grandmasters were not warm or understanding. They would ask what he had been doing in the forest. Ask about the Named weapons. About the nature of his friendship with Bug.
And he would be severely punished for using the weapons. They might disqualify him from the Naming—perhaps permanently.
It chilled him. The thought of waiting another year for the Viper left him sick and uneasy, if they even allowed him to compete. Perhaps his actions would render him unworthy of the title. Another Savant could take his place. Cerastes had other students to compete for his Name.
Cerastes. He let out a slow breath. He couldn't go to all of the Grandmasters about this, but perhaps he could speak to his own. The bond between student and teacher was built on loyalty and unquestionable trust. Cerastes would know what to do.
It took a half-hour to return to the beach, a stretch of sand on the outskirts of the colony. He found his Grandmaster easily. Cerastes sat above an alcove of rock that sank down into the ocean, like the mouth of a gaping giant. Ten foot swells crashed against the rocks—the giant's breath. His teacher was deep in meditation, perfectly still, almost invisible against the dark rock.
Cerastes opened his eyes, aware of his student's presence. “You are late,” he said. “In four years, you have never been late for our training. What happened?”
Savant fell upon his knees before the Grandmaster, propping his hands against his legs, bowing his head. “Master,” he began. He had rehearsed the words, but they failed him now. His mouth grew dry. “There has been... an accident....”
“Assassins do not have accidents,” his Master replied automatically. Then his brow furrowed. Cerastes was far older than his student, well past his prime, and yet his forehead was still smooth, his black hair long and sleek down to his waist. “What happened?”
Savant hesitated only for a moment, then he rushed through the story, explaining the morning's events. He kept his voice soft, his tone quiet. Those of the Hive had ears everywhere.
When he finished, Cerastes lowered his head in thought. He remained silent for a long stretch of time. Savant almost relaxed, lulled by the rush of the ocean and the caw of gulls.
“I know the female you speak of,” he finally said. “She was Grandmaster Nitrix' student. She was weak.”
“We must save her.”
“She was weak.”
Savant looked up sharply, unable to hide the surprise on his face. He stared at the Grandmaster for a long moment, countless words on his lips, tangling his thoughts. He shook his head to clear it. “But, she is of the Hive.”
“You are not listening, Savant.” Cerastes spoke slowly and clearly. “You are my best student. The best I have seen in twenty years. Your logic is as keen as your blade.”
Savant waited, forcing himself to listen, barely contained.
The Grandmaster carried on at a leisurely pace. “Harpies are not weak. Their very nature, in fact, is designed to destroy us. Their Light burns our eyes, their Voice binds our limbs. Does it make sense for the Hive to send full-fledged assassins—some of whom will be killed, I assure you—to rescue a weak child?”
Savant felt anger spark to life. It rushed up from his stomach, burning his throat like molten rock. “But....”
“You were friends with this girl?” Cerastes' stare pierced him. Savant lowered his eyes. Friends were not encouraged in the Hive. They were tolerated, perhaps, but only as a thing of childhood. He was too old for such sentiment, now—a friend was a weakness, a crack in one's armor. “No, Grandmaster.”
“Then give me one reason why we should save her.” Cerastes' words were unexpectedly direct.
Savant looked up and opened his mouth. Paused. He had no reason.
The Grandmaster nodded. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. His green eyes glinted coldly in the afternoon light. “This is the way of the Hive, savant,” he murmured. “Now let me ask you a far more important question. Are you sure that you are ready to take a Name?”
Savant gazed at his Master, still reeling from the day's events. “Yes,” he finally said.
“Because your weakness is most apparent right now.”
The words shut him down. Savant realized what he was risking; what his Grandmaster was threatening. He locked his jaw, wiped his expression and cleared his thoughts. He let out a short, tense breath. “It was an unexpected morning,” he said abruptly.
The Grandmaster nodded again. “Understandably. Take a run on the beach. Clear your mind for the Naming.”
Savant bowed, his head touching the rock, then stood up. He reminded himself that he was lucky. Cerastes was far more understanding than some, and he was true to the ways of the Hive.
He climbed to his feet and turned, leaping nimbly across the slippery rocks.
Cerastes called from the peak of the giant's mouth. “You did not fail her, savant,” he said, and his student turned briefly, catching his eye. “Remember. She was weak.”
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If you like Paranormal Romance, check out T. L. Shreffler's The Wolves of Black River series!
The Wolves of Black River
Mark of the Wolf
Blood of the Wolf
About the Author
T. L. Shreffler is a noblewoman living in the sunny acres of San Fernando Valley, California, a mere block from Warner Bros. Studios. She enjoys frolicking through meadows, sipping iced tea, exploring the unknown reaches of her homeland and unearthing rare artifacts in thrift stores. She holds a Bachelors in Eloquence (English) and writes Epic Fantasy, Paranormal Romance and poetry. She has previously been published in Eclipse: A Literary Anthology and The Northridge Review.
Feel free to connect online! She loves hearing from readers, reviewers, orcs, elves, assassins, villains, figments of her imagination and extraterrestrials looking to make contact. Her online accounts are as follows:
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Website: www.tlshreffler.com
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Twitter: @poetsforpeanuts
Viper's Creed (The Cat's Eye Chronicles) Page 29
