King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three

by Jenna Rhodes

“My Gods.”

  He stood at the time and place where Lariel Anderieon had earned her title of Warrior Queen.

  And he did not understand why or how. Bregan had led him back in time.

  Sevryn went to cover, calling for a sapling to own his shadow within its own slender seeming, and melded into it. Lara paced once or twice before him, and flashed a glance over him, slowing, and he knew she saw him despite his hiding.

  No one else took notice. That would be as he remembered from her memory, if she did not lie to herself. People did, often. And even if they did not, the years often bent and faded what was true and what was not.

  Bregan had, indeed, brought him to Daravan. But not a Daravan he could kill, not here and now, without changing the history of the last few centuries, and he dare not tamper with a Way such as that.

  He watched again what he’d learned from Lara’s memory, but his attention stayed on Daravan at the other side of the Dead Circle, the Vaelinar who stood in the shadow of Sinok Anderieon and wondered what he intended there.

  Sevryn spoke to the tree’s shadow hiding him and moved quietly about the Circle, from shadow to shadow, unnoticed as the savage combat held the attention of all. It gave him a pang to see both Jeredon and Osten at work, both friends, both dead, and yet here . . . as young and in their prime as ever he had seen them, and not in Lariel’s thoughts this time. They sparred and covered her, and each other, grunting and shouting and even laughing with their efforts. He could, if he wished, reach out to touch them. Warn them. Protect them. Bittersweet to see them and know he could do nothing. Could not stop their untimely deaths in his lifetime. Could not save them from plots and conspiracies, and not from love and war.

  At last his turning took him within a handful of paces of Daravan. Daravan whose Vaelinar gaze stayed raptly on Lariel and her every movement as if he might devour her. Was it admiration or ambition burning in his eyes? Gilgarran, Sevryn’s mentor, looked younger than he had when training Sevryn, but then . . . he had been, then. Several hundred years younger. His attention seemed split between Lara and Daravan, his wiry form tense. In his cupped hand at his thigh, he palmed a small but lethal blade. Who for? Daravan? Sinok? It would not be used—at least, in Lara’s memory it had not. But Sevryn moved through a different perspective now.

  If Gilgarran sensed him in the shadows, it might even be used on him.

  Sevryn stilled his breathing and even his thoughts, except to reach out and watch the threads of existence stretching about him, weaving and reweaving in tangled patterns about Lara as she fought to stay alive and earn her title.

  His breath hissed between his teeth at the treacheries and unexpected alliances, and the skill of the combatants until Lara, tired but still alive, lay for a moment on her back. He had worked his way, unthinking, to the edge of the Dead Circle where she’d fallen. Their eyes met. He knew Tiiva lurked on her flank and made a motion to warn her, unheeding of changing history because when he’d viewed this scene through Lara’s eyes, he had indeed signaled her in warning. So how could he not now?

  And then the challenges played out as they had been meant to and he did not know if he had unwittingly changed history or not, because Lara remembered the Kobrir assassin. Daravan walked away without a sound, but Gilgarran went to old Sinok and accompanied him, and soon no one stood at the Dead Circle but the two of them.

  Lara looked at him as a shadow-swathed Kobrir. “I owe you thanks.”

  She could not depend on him, for he would not be there again, not for decades upon decades. He looked at her young and hopeful face. “You need to learn to think like an assassin. There are no friends, only foes. And more importantly, when you drop a foe, make sure they stay down.”

  She considered him longer, thinking. He could not let her think.

  “Who are you?”

  “That is not the question you should be asking. The question you should be asking is—who will I be?”

  “Are you here to kill me?”

  He dropped into his Voice. “No, my lady, not in this or any other time. Nor shall you remember these words until you have the greatest need.”

  In a flash he did not let her see, his hand shot out, and his thin blade traced her bare throat, eliciting the smallest of blood trickles before he turned and disappeared.

  Inside the tunnel, he bent over, hands on his knees, more shaken than he wanted to admit. When he stood, Sevryn strode to the pool where Bregan sat, back to the wall, eyes closed in sleep. He grabbed him by the collar and dragged him back into the depth of the tunnel with the trader awakening and twisting in his hold, voice cracking in fear.

  When Sevryn had gotten so far back into the rock-strewn path that the edge of light bleeding in could no longer be seen, as if it had never existed, he stopped, throwing Bregan to one side as the other yelled for illumination and mercy.

  Bregan threw dirt and rocks at him until, weak, he could throw no more, and the ineffective barrage sank to the cave’s flooring as he did.

  “You’re as bat-shitty crazy as I am.” Bregan bowed both hands over his head as if afraid Sevryn would seize him again or beat his brains out against the cavern wall.

  Sevryn leaned over. “You will,” he said slowly, “take us back into the tunnel until you feel a difference in the path, a shifting, a change, and then bring us back to the time and place you are supposed to deliver me.”

  “Wha—what are you talking about?”

  “Get up. Get up and do it.”

  Bregan waved about them. “We’re in solid rock. Do you think I know where we are?”

  They were face-to-face. Sevryn bared his teeth. “You fool of a Mageborn. If anyone knows where we are, you do.”

  “Mageborn.” Bregan’s teeth clicked shut. He reared back, scooting along the dirt floor. He wiped his eyes clean of dust and disbelief. “The Mageborn are dead. They destroyed themselves before you lot were thrown cursed into our lands. I know that. You know it.”

  “Did you think just any Kernan could do a bit of magic? Could read the tunnel signs? Could summon bright light out of ancient, forgotten sigils? Anyone?”

  “I . . .” Bregan swallowed. “I thought I’d gone crazy. The Gods speaking to me.” He whispered, “They called me Mageborn in my delusions, in my rage, in my stupor. I knew I had lost my senses. I can’t be one of them reborn. I don’t have the guts.”

  “Oh, there’s little doubt of that. History proved that most of the Mageborn were, as you put it, bat-shit crazy. As for the Gods talking to you, there will never be a better time to listen. Now get up and get me where I need to be.”

  “I’m afraid to hear what They want to say to me.”

  “Right now, I’m the one you need to fear.” He put his hand under Bregan’s elbow. He could feel the man draw away from him.

  “I want no trade with Gods,” Bregan muttered.

  That made two of them.

  BISTANE HALTED HIS HORSE as his two scouts came pounding up, their tashyas wet with foam and nostrils flared as they fought for air. Greenery slashed by hooves sprayed the area about them as they plunged to a halt. Leathers creaked and metal jangled as the horses danced in place and snorted vigorously, tossing their heads. He unhooked his water flask and threw it to his riders, waiting until they had washed their mouths out and then drunk deeply. “What is it?”

  “Ild Fallyn troops. Riding on a parallel track to ours, half a day ahead.”

  His lips thinned. Ill news indeed, but then word of that line rarely brought any other kind of news. He scanned the landscape about him, the forests thickening as they moved uphill, ridges awaiting them, to slow them down and perhaps provide gateways to ambush. He knew this wilderness but slightly, and he did not like what he saw. Too much unknown, too much rough territory. “How many?”

  “We crossed a handful, but it appeared they have split off from a considerably larger-sized force.”


  He did not, as his father would not have, demean their skills by asking if they were certain. They would not have pelted back to report unless they were. He crossed his wrists on the saddle in front of him, taking stock. Some answers would be more important than others. “Were you seen?”

  “Not by any who lived.”

  Nor did he ask again if they were sure. “Were you able to question any of them before their unfortunate demise?”

  “One. Calcort has been overrun by Raymy, a huge fall of the lizards. They came in like a tide. He claims that the Dweller who carries Jeredon’s heir is in ild Fallyn hands, captured in the fray, and Tressandre has ordered her imprisoned. I cannot confirm the veracity of his words as his companion died too suddenly to corroborate the story.”

  “Nutmeg Farbranch was taken from Calcort.”

  “ Yes, and . . . your brother, Verdayne.”

  Bistane’s jaw stiffened. If only he had not sent Verdayne with the books, but he could not be in both places and there had been no better man for the job. The job before him might not matter at all if the library fell to destruction. He swallowed his regret. “Being held for ransom?”

  “The scout said nothing of the sort.” The scout hesitated. “We have no proof and what the ild Fallyn scum knew, he heard from camp gossip as Tressandre and Alton were to join them shortly. He believed it true and was quite proud of it. He recognized our colors. He told me—” the speaker paused before swallowing tightly. “He told me to tell you that your father’s bastard was being attended to and that he would be taught how to serve the Vaelinars properly.”

  He frowned but answered lightly, “If they do indeed have Dayne, he will be surprising them. My brother is no less stubborn than any of us and no less skilled with a weapon. He will let them think what they want, and turn their inattention on them as soon as he can. He will be very tough to kill.” And if they did, ild Fallyn would pay. His father might have tempered his actions toward that lineage in the past, but he no longer felt a need to honor old counsel. And as for ghosts, why had Bistel said nothing about Dayne’s capture? Did the spirit world move around in the dark much as any world did? What good was a haunt without answers? His frown knotted tighter.

  “Should we send out a detail to see if we can find them?”

  Bistane thought a very, very long moment. If he were to send anybody, he’d have to send his very best, and he had a grave need for his very best at the moment. He could neither afford the loss of ten riders to send out or the exposure of his troop movement if any of the other ild Fallyn discovered them. He would have to trust that Dayne could hold his own. “No. Whatever the ild Fallyn are up to out here, I fear we’ll know soon enough, and I don’t want to tip my hand before. We cannot move to capture the hostages without more information and time, and our current engagement holds my complete attention for the moment.”

  “As you wish, Warlord.”

  “Not what I wish, but what must be.” He nodded slowly. “Get fresh horses. Get replacements if you feel you need it. See that the other scouts know where you marked their position and likely progress. I don’t want any more encounters. We’re too close to where we have to be.”

  “But that is well.”

  “That is very well.” He meant to be close. He had to be close. Lives depended upon it.

  “If we should encounter other ild Fallyn, however, I want that confirmation that they’ve taken the girl and my brother hostage. As well as to what they’re up to.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Clouds swooped overhead with the speed and intensity of birds on the wing, a blight on what had been an otherwise ordinary and pleasant late spring afternoon. Bistane looked up as the skies darkened ominously with a keening of wind and then lightened again, the storm breaking up even as it streaked by. Ebony banners marked the passage as if a God struck his colors defiantly. The wind screeched past, snatching at him vigorously and then letting go like a wisp of smoke. No storm moved like that, in heartbeats instead of candlemarks. No natural storm.

  “Do you smell that?”

  “Like the spray off the sea, sir, almost.” The scout whirled his horse about as if he could keep pace with the lightning-fast clouds.

  “Yes. Almost exactly like that.” Bistane tracked its movement roughly, and the tension that stiffened his body translated to his horse, which made a two-step shy off the trail anxiously. Bistane reined the horse back and made note of the storm clouds streaking past. “It’s gone now, but it will come to a landing somewhere. Like a water spout or wind devil, and Gods help those in the vicinity.”

  “What do you think it brings?”

  “More than rain and wind.” He hooked his water flask back onto his saddle. “Time is wasting.”

  The head scout and his follower threw him what passed for a salute, wheeled their tired horses and made off to do as he’d ordered. He craned his neck to catch the last of the storm tide as it rolled past them, leaving the air in its wake with a dank and salty stink. He could not fathom how feathery clouds could rain down a dire enemy from the very sky itself, but he feared that this storm was capable of just that. From what sea to their sky? On what wings did the Raymy travel? And yet, it was not worry about the Raymy that spurred him. He kept staring as if he might see beyond even a Vaelinar’s vision, perhaps into the future, perhaps back to the land which had birthed the storm and cast it whirling. The vision he wished did not come to him. He lifted his helm and brushed his hair off his forehead, and settled the helm back again. Always far more questions than answers came to him.

  He didn’t like not going after Verdayne or that sassy bit of a woman, Nutmeg. He loved his brother and held a certain fondness for the outspoken Dweller who many saw as no more than Rivergrace’s shadow but which he had learned was far from the reality. As for the other, it was not that Dayne would appreciate a rescue from him; he would not if his faculties and all his limbs were still intact, but his brotherly instincts called for him to ride to a rescue. Bistane had been given a task, and he could not stray from it, or outcomes would be dire. Even if he brought his army in time, the prospects were not good. He told himself Dayne would understand. And, if his brother didn’t survive, he would have to live with his decision.

  Bistane put his heel to his own mount and rode to the head of the column. Cavalry, archers, and infantry all saluted as he passed them by, buoyed by good meals before he asked this forced march of them. They would grumble in another day or two, but he hoped they would reach their destination by then. He would stay ahead of them now until they reached the battlefields. He’d slipped into the front of the formation when he became aware that he did not ride alone—his father’s ghostly white mount and transparent figure rode next to him, the sight of the apparition stinging his eyes. Why see him now? What good did it do? The other wavered in his view as if both there and not. An unnamed feeling surged through Bistane. Was the ghost here—or was Bistane somehow viewing where the ghost reigned? What advantage did that give him if the ghost could not even warn him that the ild Fallyns were also driving an army this way?

  He wiped his brow as if that might clear both his thoughts and his sight.

  “I don’t seek this,” he said quietly, “seeing you, and if you must speak to me, at least tell me about Verdayne.”

  Bistel turned his chiseled face toward him, snow-white hair uncovered by his usual war helm. The blue-upon-piercing-blue eyes weighed him. He knew that visage, that expression, that careful measurement so well. Bistane waited for his father to speak, but if Bistel had an opinion about his not riding in pursuit of Verdayne and Nutmeg, he did not express it. Nor did he say anything about anything. Bistane put a gloved hand to the back of his neck where prickles raced up and down, and smoothed his skin. Gods but he hated being haunted.

  NAILS RAKED THE SIDE OF HER HOOD, tearing at the fabric like daggers. Sunlight splintered in through flaws in the rough weave, but she d
id not have to see to know who clawed at her. Nutmeg held herself as still as she could in the saddle, unflinching, although every instinct reacted. To show fear would only make the moment last longer. She would not give Tressandre the joy she sought in tormenting her.

  “You will miss me, little beast.” Tressandre gave a shallow, hissing laugh.

  “As a stinkdog misses its slime?”

  Tressandre slapped her, sharp and hard despite the baffling of the cloth hood covering her face. She recoiled with the blow, ears ringing. Nutmeg tasted blood at the corner of her mouth and curled her fingers tighter into her saddle leathers to keep her balance.

  “I should have made you walk every step,” ild Fallyn hissed at her ear. “But your waddling makes me late to a triumph for which I’ve long fought. Don’t despair. You’ll still have company on this little journey, and they will see to it that your dungeon room is waiting for you. As dungeons go, it’s not much, but then you’re used to grubbing in dirt. It should be quite homey.”

  The voice withdrew, and a horse jingled his bit. Tressandre said coldly, “If anything befalls this lump, make sure you cut the baby alive from her belly. I want that child!”

  Horses nickered as hooves drummed and dust rose that penetrated even the rough cloth about her. When she could breathe evenly again, her mount jerked into movement. Though she had ridden quite a bit in her life, and it was better than walking, the discomfort made her bite her swollen lip. Every jar sent lightning up her spine and through her hips. Her horse stumbled a step and slowed.

  A hand took her by the elbow after fumbling a bit, and Nutmeg recognized Dayne’s hold. The hood over her head rustled as he bent close enough to touch it and whisper, “We have fewer than half the guards we had before. And Tressandre and Alton are gone.”

  “You heard what she said?”

  “Yes.” His hand tightened on her. “And the blow. Are you hurt?”

  “It only smarts a little. I should have kept my lips tight.”