“I’ll see if someone can come by tomorrow,” Aren said as Tun took note of the order in a large, leather-bound ledger. “Where are you from? It’s odd that someone would apprentice here for”—Aren thought for a moment—“oil. We don’t even have a guild here for this sort of thing. Rose would’ve been better.”
“Rose might be better, but it’s also further away. You won’t have heard where I’m from; it’s a small town on the southeastern end of the Plytain Wood.”
“Pren-Holder,” Aren said. “Belonged to the House of Kaishar, but something happened; nothing substantial written on it.”
“The people of Pren-Holder have no allegiance to the House of Kaishar; we fought for our independence and won. Kaishar learned quickly that we’re not meant to be its lapdogs.”
“That’s…interesting,” Aren managed, pulling his hood over his head, then picking up the flask. “Maybe I’ll visit Pren-Holder one day and do an exchange with their library.”
Tun walked him out, his large shadow blanketing the glass and boxes as they passed through the store. “Really? I bet you’ve never even stepped foot out of Tiede.”
“On the contrary, I just got back from the River Taethe this morning.”
There was an awkward silence.
“The river,” Tun said. “I misjudged you, Apprentice. It’s good you made it back safely.” He rolled up his sleeves as if preparing to lift more boxes. Aren caught a glimpse of the inking that seemed to cover the man’s upper arm. Part of it looked like a leaf or plant, but he wasn’t sure, and he didn’t know what purposes they inked for in Pren-Holder. After a beat, Tun said, “I’ll drop the House oil off tomorrow if our shipment comes in.”
“I really appreciate it,” Aren started as he stepped outside, but Tun had already closed and bolted the door.
Stories
ONE
Aren’s final stop for the evening was the Weavers Guild, but he felt a bit apprehensive about the task at hand and found himself looping around towards the residential district, taking the long way back to Guild Row from Wethern’s.
His mind wandered as his feet took him down an alleyway. The shadows were at play here, and he cursed himself for not staying on the main roads. There wasn’t enough light down this corridor—only enough to make his imagination create monsters out of darkness. A rough wind raced down the alley, and a chill followed in its wake, forcing him to reach for the hilt of the sword at his hip. He placed the flask of oil additive on the ground against the wall, certain that he wasn’t alone. He glanced up at the rooftops, found nothing, then checked both ends of the alley, feeling trapped and stupid.
He didn’t see a soul, but something felt very wrong. It had turned too cold for a summer night in Tiede, too dark for a high, clear moon and raining stars, and the wind had vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
Sensing a presence coming up behind him, he unsheathed his sword, bringing it up to block the shadow and bone that peeled itself off the wall and attacked him. The grating of Aren’s sword against bone made him clench his teeth, and he pushed the thing back, preparing to defend himself against another strike.
Black smoke began to swirl, hinting at arms and legs, a shrouded head. Aren felt his mouth go dry as he wondered if this was the thing killing Tiede’s people. Maybe it hadn’t been caught because it wasn’t a person; it was some sort of creature. The smoke vanished and he felt his heart beat faster. He forced himself to breathe, then concentrated on the air currents around him. He felt the shift of space behind him before he heard the movement of broken pebbles underfoot, and he brought his blade up again to deflect another blow. The creature was strong, and a hiss accompanied by a rank, sulfurous smell slipped out from where he imagined a face might be.
Aren pushed again, this time following up with a series of strikes. How long could the thing use its bones to defend itself? As if to answer Aren’s unspoken question, the creature manifested a blade. Gleaming crimson, pulled from some invisible sheath, blocked Aren’s every blow. This thing was good, and he had a feeling it was just playing with him. Then, it sniffed his hair.
“T’jand!”
The monster’s raspy voice had a smile in it, and Aren filtered through all the languages in his head, unable to place this one. Lost language or bastard language, maybe. He committed the monster’s words to memory, determined to research them if he made it out of this alive.
“A’diekki mei,” Aren replied in Ancient. It was the oldest language he was most proficient in, and that wasn’t saying much. “I don’t understand.”
The creature laughed, like bone scraping against bone. Aren winced, but his eyes caught the faint glow of red pulsing just beneath the surface of the smoke. He tried to focus and piece together the disjointed symbols. The crimson sword vanished.
T’jand, you did well. I smell the blood. It spoke some of its words in Common, and Aren was even more confused than before. The creature leaned its head in closer, and Aren could make out yellow, reptilian eyes. It inhaled, and Aren took a step back, his sword at the ready. Magic. Niaf’kur. Soon, I will be strong. Do not worry. Catar ni zri.
Aren opened his mouth to ask what it meant, but the smoke vanished, and he was alone. What in the stars had just happened? He sheathed his sword, feeling the air around him return to normal. He blew his hair out of his eyes, then recovered the flask. Damn this errand for the Lady. He needed to get back to the Library and figure out what that creature had said to him. He had to tell the House that a thing made of smoke was on the loose. He sounded like a crazed lunatic, even to himself.
Footsteps began approaching down the alley, and Aren drew his sword again, wondering what was going to attack him next. Flashes of green caught in the unsteady light like the eyes of a wild beast, and three heads moved towards him with unified purpose. Aren considered throwing the flask of oil at it to give himself a head start. His throat dried up and he licked his lips, torn between taking off and standing his ground.
Aren was frozen in place when the streetlamp at the end of the alley made a sizzling noise, flickered for a moment, then illuminated the area with a moon-like wash.
“Aren! I knew it was you!” the young woman squealed, running over and latching onto his arm. She wore a miniature black velvet top hat over her reddish-gold curls. Her face was touched with blush, shiny copper shadow, and rouge, and the bare tops of her breasts were heaved up by the dark corset she wore over her frilly white blouse. Her silk, jade-green skirts were bustled and long in the back, but short in the front, showing off black thigh-high boots laced snug along the shaft. Around her neck was a dainty yet stunning collar of sparkling, light-green gemstones. At twenty-two years old, Trista acted like a child and flirted like a harlot.
Cocking her head at him, she said, “Are you all right?”
Aren lowered his arms and sheathed his sword, feeling like an idiot. A drop of sweat rolled down his temple. “You should’ve seen that rat; I swear it was the size of a gree. I must’ve scared it away.” He looked down at the wide, blue eyes staring up at him and forced a smile. “Good evening, Miss Trista.” Then he looked to the two men who had accompanied her and inclined his head in greeting. They wore the robes of the Apprentice, but he couldn’t tell their field of study. The bigger man only stared at him, but the tall, lean one nodded. So much for Aren’s three-headed monster.
Trista giggled and squeezed his arm. “Stop being so formal with me. Where have you been? The whole town was looking for you.”
He began to walk, letting her cling to his arm for a while longer. “I’m on House business.”
“There’s more to life than the House and your books and the old man.” Her voice, which he had once considered bright like a golden bell, was starting to give him several small headaches behind his eyes, each stabbing pain reminding him of how idiotic he was to fall for a pretty face.
“The House, the books, and even the old man are my life,” he said. “It might not seem like much to you, but it makes me happy. You forget
that we have nothing in common.” She frowned, and he could see the gloss of tears in her eyes. He could try to be gentler, but she hadn’t picked a good time to bring up whatever imaginary relationship she thought they had. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong impression about us,” he said, softening his tone. He turned and walked away, done with the conversation and the sour memories that came with it.
Aren was nearing the end of the alley when she cried out, “I still love you!” She was walking towards him again. “You need to give us a chance!”
He stopped and sighed, his shoulders slumped. “Trista, please go home. It’s late and your friends don’t need to hear this.”
As if on cue, her companions joined her, and the leaner one wrapped an arm around her shoulder and looked at Aren with amusement. “At least now we get to see what the fuss was all about,” he said, a slight accent in his voice. Like Aren, his skin tone was tawny, but his eyes were hazel, his hair a lighter brown. He looked Tennari. “She’s called me Aren once or twice when she’s had too much to drink.”
Aren raised an eyebrow; he didn’t care to discover the context in which his name had been misspoken. “You know my name but I don’t know yours.”
The bigger man didn’t say a word, but a soft glow emanated from his shoulders, indicating he was marked. Aren wasn’t sure if he should take it as a threat.
“Inra Mercer of Tennar. You apprentice in the House, then?” the Tennari asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“Yes,” Aren hesitated, “and I should be getting back. I don’t want to make Lord Vir angry.”
“Of course not,” Mercer said, glancing at Trista before shooting Aren a look that made him uneasy. “Trista, I hope this has been enough to get him out of your system. Let’s leave him be. He’s apparently a very busy man.”
TWO
If Aren had believed in bad omens, he would’ve returned to the House and gone straight to bed—the Lady and her key be damned. The monster in the alley was the drawing of the death card, but bumping into Trista and her weird friends had ended the game for him. Unfortunately for Aren, there was no quitting the game. He had nothing to win or lose; he could only go about his business, do what was asked of him.
Aren stopped in front of the Weavers Guild and looked up at the building. Its clean architectural design, with its tall columns and triangular pediments, was reminiscent of the neoclassical period. But this particular Guild wasn’t anything magnificent, unlike some of the others. The Horticulture Guild, Aren recalled, with its steep gables and arches, was more in line with current architectural styles—breathtaking both inside and out, with its elaborate gardens and showy vine work. And the Technical Arts Guild, where his sister Lana taught, was a wonder of glass planes and lines of lacy metal within its high domes and vaulted ceilings.
Aren took a step forward and thumbed the mechanical bell, then glanced up at the rooftop and checked the streets from the depths of his hood. Nothing suspicious. He wondered if he seemed suspicious. While it wasn’t uncommon for the House to send servants and apprentices about at any time, he wondered if it was strange for him to be asking about fabric this late in the evening.
When the door opened, a young girl draped in black apprentice robes stood before him, her head lowered and unhooded. “Master, how may we be of service to the House this evening?” she recited.
“Just ‘Apprentice,’” he said. “I’m on an errand for Lady Geyle. She asked me to see Apprentice Caley.”
She stepped aside and gestured for him to enter the foyer. The white marble floor reflected the ornate, crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling. Just ahead was a staircase, and to the left and right, archways opened up to various rooms. When the young apprentice closed the door behind him, Aren lowered his hood. A small gasp escaped her, and she averted her eyes, the tops of her brown cheeks flush. “You may leave your things here, if you like,” she said, indicating the flask he was holding. He complied, setting the flask on a rosewood console table against the wall just inside the door.
Aren had only entered the Weavers Guild a handful of times, each time on House errands or to get fitted for his robes. When they entered the parlor, Aren’s eyes were drawn to the large painting hanging over the fireplace that dominated the room. It depicted a woman with rich, black skin. She sat at a loom, her long fingers working. She wore a gown of emerald green into which the most intricate patterns of knots had been stitched with golden threads. Her feet were bare, and her head bowed at her work, long braids of gold, silken hair spilling around her.
“It’s our patron goddess Sabana,” the girl whispered. “The Guild received the painting as a gift from Rose when Lady Geyle was married to Lord Vir.”
“She’s beautiful,” Aren breathed, unable to look away from the striking colors and the way the goddess seemed to move within the frame. She was regal and strong, the very definition of perfection.
“Gods, yes. You are beautiful,” the girl breathed. She cleared her throat. “Please, just wait here.”
Aren snapped out of his reverie and furrowed his brows. His guide made her way over to a girl sitting on a plush, green velvet chaise studying fabric patterns and then whispered something in her ear. The older apprentice looked towards the doorway, then stood up to follow. The others, lounging about the room with their textbooks, whispered amongst themselves, watching. Aren smiled, telling himself to look friendly and at ease. He was here to check on the Lady’s dress.
When they reached him, the younger girl bowed and took her leave. “Apprentice Denfar Caley,” the older girl said, a lilt in her voice that sounded similar to Geyle’s. “You asked to see me, Apprentice Aren?”
“You know who I am?” He took a small step back, his eyes narrowing a little, one eyebrow higher than the other.
Caley looked like a young boy with her plum-colored hair cropped short in the back, and whatever figure she had, concealed within the black robes. Her eyes were sharp, studying his face. “And you know who I am. Now, what is it the House needs?”
Aren cleared his throat, recalling the lines he had come up with. “The Lady of the House asked me to find out if the fabric for her dress is ready.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Or see how it’s progressing.” Stars, he was messing this up, and he felt his face getting hot. “I know it’s late, but I had to attend to other errands anyway, so she asked if she could trouble me. Of course, right? As if I would turn down Lady Tiede.” He pressed his lips together. “So, how’s the material? I mean, fabric?”
Caley started, her brows furrowing deep atop the bridge of her nose. “The fabric for her dress. Lady Geyle’s dress.” There was no question in her tone, but it was all over her face.
He raised his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side. “Is there a problem?”
“I guess her maids couldn’t be trusted with such a task?”
He shrugged. “I happened to be there when she needed someone. I have no idea how she feels about her maids.”
She stared at him, and he did his best not to cave under her scrutiny. He thought the tip of her nose turned up in a cute way and was sure that she would punch him in the face for thinking it, so he tried to remove the thought from his head.
“Lady Geyle must be desperate. What do you even know about fabric?” she asked.
He rubbed the stubble along his jawline and made a show of thinking. “I think it’s great for making dresses”—he paused—“like the one the Lady asked me to check on. Any chance we could get on with it? I have to get back to the House.”
She scowled, but after a beat said, “Follow me.”
She led him past the stairs then down a hallway past a few darkened, quiet rooms he assumed were for classes. They turned at the end of the hallway, and Caley led him through another room and into an adjoining room the size of a noble’s closet. Large white cabinets lined three of the walls, but on the one opposite the entrance was an old wall unit with square drawers similar to ones found in an apothecary or teahouse, only l
arger.
Caley walked to the bottom left corner and removed a drawer full of scrap fabric, placing it on the table in the center of the room. She stared at Aren. “Are you from Rose?” Her words were blunt and demanding.
“No, and the Lady didn’t say anything about being asked such questions.”
Caley’s eyebrows furrowed again, and he could see a flush of pink rise to the tops of her cheeks and ears; that, combined with her plum-colored hair, made him think of festival candy, and it made him hungry.
She turned back to the empty drawer space, got down on all fours, and reached inside. There came the sound of something clicking into place. Aren heard the slide of a small door against a track, then watched as Caley stood up, a small, plain wooden box in her hands. She handed it to him and dusted off her robe.
“Are you from Rose?” he asked. “I remember seeing you in one of my sister’s classes about the functional beauty of lines or something crazy like that. I was dropping off a sword she designed.”
Caley took a step back, and the expression on her face was one of confusion. “I don’t think this is the best time to chat, and I shouldn’t leave you in here by yourself for long. It would be best if you…checked on that fabric and left.”
“Right,” he chuckled.
“Let me know when you’re done,” she said and then turned to leave, casting a wary glance at him and closing the door.
Aren turned the box over in his hands, looking for any markings or hints of what could be inside. Finding none, he pulled the key out of his pocket and slipped it into the keyhole. He took a deep breath. He was running an errand for the Lady, he told himself. She had sent him on this task, and as a loyal member of the House, he was bound to obey.
Aren turned the key until he heard a click. He lifted the top, hoping the hinges wouldn’t creak, feeling that if they did, the entire Guild might hear it. The box remained silent, refusing to tell him anything. He looked inside and found a light-green silk cloth. He pulled it with a flourish, realizing only when he saw something fly into the air that the object had been wrapped inside the cloth and that he had flung it towards the heavens. He cursed, dropping the box and stretching to reach out over the table to catch the thing.
Uniting the Heavens Page 10
