Of Killers and Kings

by Will Wight

  Copyright © 2020 Hidden Gnome Publishing

  Book and Cover design by Patrick Foster Design

  Cover painting by Micah Epstein

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  WillWight.com

  To all my fans who would have preferred I delay these books even more: I’m sorry this isn’t Cradle!

  Please don’t beat me.

  Prologue

  present day

  Tarik cradled the baby Leafcrawler in his arms, glancing around the misty morning for any prying eyes.

  The Kameira squirmed in his hands, roughly the size and shape of a green-tinged baby rabbit with the bud of a flower emerging from its head. It would grow into the ability to ensure quick and healthy harvests, so Leafcrawlers were favorites of farmers the world over. Some less scrupulous alchemists could make supernaturally effective fertilizer with their body parts, but the practice was frowned upon by the Guild.

  Tarik laughed at himself as he slipped through a gap that one of his friends had knocked in the fence. This Leafcrawler wasn’t going to grow into anything. Not if the Great Ones were listening.

  He wore a black, hooded robe with the Open Eye symbol of the Sleepless stitched onto his chest. He had sewn it himself, keeping it secret except during designated meetings.

  They rarely accomplished anything during those meetings. It was mostly a way to complain about the state of the Empire and dream of all the things that would be possible once they were rewarded with Elder knowledge.

  But unlike some other sects of the Sleepless, they weren’t all talk. Tarik had seen miracles. His faith was strong.

  Today, he would prove it.

  Beyond the fence was a Greenwarden conservatory: a broad, rounded brick building with a domed roof of glass panels. Inside, the Guild had once kept rare Kameira and exotic plants from all over the world for the pleasure and education of the viewing public.

  Now, thanks to the Imperialists, the Greenwardens had been driven out of the lands surrounding the Capital. These doors were chained shut and the windows boarded up. There would be no Kameira roaming beneath the glass sky.

  It was perfect for a predawn meeting with no witnesses.

  The Great Ones were looking out for Tarik and his brothers and sisters; they had sent a thick fog. On a morning like this, they could hold their summoning ritual on the front lawn and still no one would be the wiser.

  Tarik slipped through a side door, where another compatriot had cut the chain and broken the lock. He carried the Leafcrawler inside, into the light of a single candle.

  The entryway was filled with glass displays whose contents loomed like Elderspawn themselves in the flickering, shadowy candlelight. There was a stuffed bear, a cluster of reeds concealing a host of glittering eyes, and an alchemically preserved owl-like Kameira large enough to feed on donkeys.

  He couldn’t read the signs, but he wasn’t here to learn natural history anyway. He slipped deeper inside, following the light of another candle.

  Tarik found the rest inside the central garden, where the glass ceiling let in a little more light. The garden was filled with low bushes and the occasional tree—nothing that could break line of sight too much. When the conservatory was active, visitors had not been allowed down here. This was where the Greenwardens let the gentler Kameira run wild, living their lives while visitors watched from a walkway that circled the room from above.

  It smelled of dew, dying flowers, and the powerful scent of old musk. Animals had roamed here, powerful animals that inherited control over the elements, and Tarik imagined he could feel their power hanging on the air.

  It was the perfect place to send up their call.

  The other five most dedicated Sleepless in the area—all with homemade robes—waited for him at the center of the garden. They had dug a wide circle into the soft earth, placing six mirrors evenly around the edge.

  As it had been Tarik’s job to locate a baby Kameira, the others had handled creating the mirrors, each of which had to bathe in the blood of an unwilling victim every day for at least a week in order to build up the Intent necessary for this ritual. Elderspawn loved the scent of bloodlust.

  They all also carried instruments; one woman held a tambourine, a man brought out a set of two hand drums, and Tarik himself had a small flute tucked away in his pocket. These objects had also been cultivated most carefully, handed down from previous generations of the cult with the sole Intent of calling the attention of the ancient ones.

  The atmosphere was tense, excited, as Tarik placed the bound and squirming baby Kameira at the center of the circle. It had never looked more like a baby rabbit as it mewled and bleated, the leaves on its head shivering.

  The Sleepless didn’t speak any more than necessary. They had been waiting on this day for weeks…and in another sense, they had been waiting their entire lives.

  They hadn’t heard from the main cabal in more than a month, but their last command had been to cause chaos and bring down the Guilds.

  Now, Tarik and the others were going to do just that. Their target was another Guild building practically next door to the conservatory: an alchemical workshop of Kanatalia. Unlike the Greenwardens, the alchemists were still plying their trade.

  Dawn would see a shift change, those who worked the facility at night leaving as their replacements arrived. It was the time when the most people would be on site.

  An opportunity to unleash pandemonium.

  The mist outside had grown so thick that it pressed against the dome overhead, preventing him from seeing the sun, but he could still see the morning grow lighter. Dawn must have broken by now. Just to be sure, one of the others checked a pocketwatch and then nodded. The time had come.

  They each settled into their position around the circle, standing next to a bloodstained mirror, holding their instruments. Tarik’s heart fluttered as though he were about to play his flute for a grand audience.

  In a way, he supposed, he was. What audience could be more distinguished than the Great Elders themselves?

  When the drumbeat began, it was just ordinary music. Then the tambourine joined, followed by one flute and a bell.

  It could have been his imagination, but Tarik thought he heard an unearthly chorus joining in, accompanying their music. The fifth person joined, strumming a lute, and finally it was Tarik’s turn.

  As soon as he played the first note, he could tell that the music was more than natural.

  The very earth seemed to shiver, the wind howling along, giving their song an eerie echo. The mist had even started to gather inside the dome, thickening so that the more distant shrubs in the gardens looked like nothing more than shadows.

  Their music swelled to a crescendo, and it sounded as though it was produced by an entire orchestra. Tarik felt tears in his eyes as the notes came out sweeter and more profound than anything he could produce on his own. This was what it meant to belong to something greater than yourself.

  Then, at the center of their circle, the earth exploded.

  A dirt-brown worm with a mouth as thick as a child’s torso erupted from underground at their call, devouring the baby Leafcrawler in a single gulp. It rose four feet from the hole in the soil, a lump sliding down the inside of its throat as it swallowed the Kameira.

  Their music died.

  For a long moment, Tarik was lost in shock and startled fear. It had worked. They had called and this minion of Kthanikahr had answered.

  The Chasm Mouth was not a friendly Elder, so to speak. It would not
share its knowledge with them. It saw humans as food. But, with the proper preparations, it could be directed.

  It twisted its head like a snake, and if Tarik could have made out any obvious eyes on the thing, he would have said it was examining their mirrors warily.

  Finally, its rounded mouth twisted into a horrible parody of human speech. “WHERE DO I FEED?”

  Tarik fell to his knees. Not just to demonstrate respect, but because he was overcome with awe. “Oh Great One of the Worm Lord, we beg you to feed on those of the Alchemist’s Guild only a thousand paces to the east of this location. You will deprive the Guilds of some of their brightest minds, plunging the Empire further into cleansing chaos!”

  He was quite proud of that speech. It had taken him three nights to write and memorize.

  What he didn’t tell the Elderspawn was the reason behind their timing. One of their cult had a cousin who worked for the Alchemist’s Guild, and the rumor was that Kanatalia was getting a delivery of rare materials today. A strike today could disrupt their ability to produce potions and elixirs for months.

  The cabal would reward them handsomely.

  The worm’s huge head twitched up, examining something over Tarik’s head. “NOT ALONE.”

  Tarik turned, realizing to his surprise that the mist had thickened. It now looked like a gray wall only inches from his face. And not a wisp had crossed between the six members of the Sleepless; it was as though the presence of the Elderspawn was keeping the mist at bay.

  He couldn’t imagine that this burrowing worm’s powers included summoning or controlling fog, but who knew what logic applied to Elders?

  A clash rang out like spilled silverware, and Tarik looked to the source. The tambourine had fallen to the ground.

  Of the woman who had played it, there was no sign.

  He heard a groan, and then one of Tarik’s friends was slumped over his hand-drums. Blood spread slowly from a wound in his back.

  Tarik’s breath came faster and faster, and the terror he felt now made what he’d experienced earlier feel like nothing. There was something in the mist.

  Before he could be the next to disappear, he ran.

  Plunging into the mist to escape felt like diving into the ocean to flee a hungry shark, but he had no choice. The Sleepless had clearly been corralled there, surrounded by the fog, and there shouldn’t be too many things lurking out of sight. If they outnumbered Tarik and his friends, they would have attacked rather than striking from stealth.

  So maybe he could escape while it picked off his friends one by one. It was the only chance he had.

  The mist was so thick that he could barely see his hand in front of his face. More than once he almost ran into a bush or tree that leaped out of nowhere. Was he getting closer to the exit? He couldn’t tell.

  He tripped, sprawling to the grass, then looked back to see what had tripped him.

  It was a black-clad body with another flute clutched in its fist. The man’s throat had been slit.

  Tarik choked down a scream.

  Here and there, he caught glimpses of black figures moving through the mist. Were those the enemy? Or were they just trees?

  A roar that must have belonged to the Chasm Mouth shook the garden, and it was close. Too close. Tarik had been running long enough that he should have been able to make a lap of the entire enclosure; how had he ended up back where he started?

  Just as he had the thought, he stumbled through the mist and into a clearing.

  No, not a clearing. The only clearing. The very place he’d started.

  All the other Sleepless were missing, even the bodies, but he wasn’t alone. The great worm of Kthanikahr lay dead, collapsed like a tree on the ground, leaking purple blood.

  A figure knelt on the Elderspawn’s body. It was wearing gray, so close in color to the mist that it was hard to make out the outline of its body. A hood covered the top half of the stranger’s face and a mask of cloth covered their mouth and nose.

  They pulled a dagger out of the body, purple blood evaporating from it like an illusion. The blade glowed softly silver-blue, like moonlight shining through this thick fog.

  The figure tilted its hood slightly, regarding him.

  Tarik found enough courage to speak. “Who…who are you?”

  The figure spoke in a woman’s ice-cold voice. “Take him.”

  Before the end of the second word, a black bag settled over Tarik’s head. He screamed.

  It did him no good.

  Chapter One

  The King will open / discover / become the door to us.

  He will allow us to escape / live / return.

  The Killer is made to slay those like him.

  If she survives, she will not allow him to live / reign / evolve.

  —Translated ramblings of an Elder-touched madwoman in the care of the Luminian Order

  (translation widely disputed)

  present day

  Rainworth was a city close to the Capital, but Shera only knew it because of their fish. Hawkers on Capital streets had promised “fresh Rainworth fish,” though the fish twenty miles south couldn’t be much different from those caught in Candle Bay itself.

  They definitely don’t smell any better, she thought as she hid in the corner of a fishmonger’s shop.

  Though she called the building a “shop,” it was the size of a busy warehouse on the Capital docks, with workers gutting and scaling and sorting fish meat on an industrial scale. Fish was big business in Rainworth.

  She had curled herself up beneath a table that was stacked with boxes—dry boxes. She wasn’t desperate enough to hide underneath one of the crates dripping with blood. The scent of dead fish wasn’t unpleasant, exactly—they weren’t rotten—but it choked out everything else.

  Though the tablecloth covered her, she wouldn’t be able to sleep here. That was all right, so long as Yala didn’t find her.

  Name an Elder and she appears…

  Yala’s pleasant customer-voice carried through the busy shop. “Excuse me, I don’t mean to stop your work, but I’m looking for a young woman…”

  Shera tucked her hands and feet further beneath the cloth.

  She was uncomfortable here, but at least she was safe. If Yala had come in person, that meant she’d tracked Shera somehow, but she still couldn’t know for sure that Shera was here. As long as Shera remained motionless, no one should find her.

  The tablecloth behind her lifted and Kerian peeked in.

  The older Gardener had the dark skin of a native Heartlander, her graying hair tied into a hundred tiny braids in a cultural style that imitated Loreli, Regent of the West. A thin scar ran down the center of her face, from her forehead down through her nose and diving into the shroud of black cloth that covered her mouth.

  When Kerian frowned, the scar crumpled up between her brows. She was frowning now.

  “What are you doing here, Guild Head?” asked the woman who had recruited Shera as a little girl.

  “Guild business,” Shera said, curling up into a tighter ball.

  The cloth over Kerian’s mouth scrunched up as she stared speechlessly at Shera.

  “This is a top-secret assignment,” Shera said, “so why don’t you tell High Mason Yala that her presence is no longer required?”

  Kerian glanced around the interior of the table. With a heavy breath, she slipped under the table and into a seated position inside, letting the tablecloth fall behind her.

  She wore the skintight black silks that symbolized the Gardeners and Shepherds, the two orders of Consultant that counted on stealth as part of their training. The same blacks that Shera was no longer allowed to wear.

  Shera’s was the same style: it covered her from the tips of her toes up to her neck while the shroud of cloth covered her face up to the nose. But her clothes were gray, meant for blending into Bastion’s Veil. And they had the addition of a hood that fell over her head, dangling over her forehead.

  She didn’t care how it looked, she car
ed that it set her apart. Yala had ordered it especially for her from the day Shera had bound her second Vessel and the Guild had named her Mistress of the Mists. Their ancient Guild Head.

  Now, the rest of the Guild waited on her orders unless she was gone, in which case they deferred to the High Council of Architects. Though they’d leaned exclusively on the Council for generations uncounted.

  Shera planned on being gone as much as possible.

  “Guild Head,” Kerian said formally, “the Regents are due to arrive at any moment. We would like to brief you on current events before they do.”

  Shera groaned and leaned her head back against one of the table legs. “Yala can do it.”

  “The Regents know you. They trust you. And they expressed great excitement that you were acting in your capacity as Head of the Consultants.”

  Shera groaned again. “I can put on a show for the rest of the Guild when I have to,” she allowed. “And I never mind rounding up Sleepless. But I don’t see why we need a Guild Head at all.”

  She especially wasn’t sure why she had to do it personally. She hadn’t asked for the position—surely there had to be others that wanted it. Maybe Kerian herself.

  They had lost the Gray Island. Meia could more than carry Shera’s share of any battle. As for this conflict between the Guilds…Shera had done her work for the Independent cause by killing the Emperor and freeing the Regents. If you thought of it that way, she had already done more for the cause than anyone else.

  She didn’t see why she shouldn’t be allowed to retire.

  …and Lucan was gone.

  Shera pushed that thought away and refocused herself on Kerian, who was regarding her with a curious expression.

  “…you have shouldered a great deal of responsibility on behalf of our Guild, especially for someone who never asked for it. Do you really feel such little attachment to the Consultants?”

  “I’m very attached to some Consultants.”