by Alec Hutson
Alyanna turned to the other guard, who gaped at her with wide eyes as his friend slid to the ground in a mangled heap. “Where are the queen’s quarters?”
His mouth worked soundlessly for a few moments before he finally found his voice. “Follow . . . follow this corridor until you come to a set of double doors. Through them, then left. Past the gardens and you’re there. Ravenroost. Her tower.”
“You have my thanks,” Alyanna said, then made a cutting motion with her hand. The guard tumbled backward, clutching at his slashed throat.
Careful to avoid the rapidly spreading pools of blood Alyanna stepped daintily over the twitching bodies of the two guardsmen.
She didn’t meet anyone else as she followed the guard’s instructions to the queen’s tower. She heard distant horns, and once even the sound of swords clashing from a nearby passage. That must be the shadowblades, sowing chaos. While the magisters and the Scarlet Guard dealt with the assassins, she would be able to confront the queen directly, without interference. She dug her nails into her sweat-slicked palms, reveling in the anticipation of what was coming. For a thousand years she had been without equal. The chance to prove herself the greatest still was making her almost giddy.
Finally, she stood at the base of Ravenroost’s great spiraling steps. She could sense the residue of sorcery above, redolent with her own unique flavor.
“Attend to me,” she said, and the Chosen appeared beside her, stepping out from wherever it was they lurked in the ragged fringes of the world.
mistress.
“Guard these stairs. Kill anyone who tries to take them to the top.” Alyanna paused on the first step, glancing back at the demon child. “Oh, and anyone besides myself who comes down.”
Rasping laughter followed her as she started the ascent.
The darkness enveloped him. Xin stood on a floor of uneven stone, someplace far underground. He knew he was deep beneath the surface because the blackness was so total, so encompassing, that he could not even see his hand when he passed it in front of his face. Also the air was clammy and stale, redolent of earth and rotting things, the smell of a tomb opened after many ages left undisturbed.
The silence pressing down on him was just as seamless as the dark, but he knew he was not alone. He could feel them, standing in a circle around him, just beyond his reach. They did not breathe – they did not need to breathe anymore. They said nothing, did nothing.
His brothers waited with the patience of the dead.
A sound shivered the stillness. He felt himself being pulled away, his spirit receding from this terrible place. A glimmer of light kindled in the distance, swelling as he hurtled closer.
Xin awoke.
He lay in a soft bed in a chamber lit by flickering candlelight. His racing heart gradually slowed as the memories of his dream faded. He had been somewhere dark, surrounded by the ghosts of his brothers. Every night was the same – he could never remember the exact details, but he knew that they had been there, watching him. Watching and waiting.
Nel squirmed against his chest, muttering something in her sleep. Xin pressed her slim body to his own, feeling her relax into his embrace.
He wasn’t ready. His brothers would have to wait. Even with a fractured soul he still had reason to live.
He drowsed beneath the silken sheets, not wanting to descend again fully into the dreamlands. His fingers played with Nel’s hair as she began to snore softly.
The sound that had dragged him from the darkness came again, a horn’s faint pealing. Nel grunted awake, her body tensing.
“What was that?” she murmured, pulling away from him.
“This one doesn’t know. A horn. That’s at least the second blast – the first woke this one a few moments ago.”
Silk whispered as Nel sat up in the bed. “What’s the hour?”
Xin glanced at the candle on the bedside table; the wax had barely melted. “Perhaps the eighth? We’ve been sleeping only a little while.”
Nel slipped from the bed and scooped her tunic from the chamber’s floor. “I’ve never heard horns blow this late. Something is happening outside.”
Xin drew his knees up to his chest, not quite ready to relinquish the warmth of the blankets. “Surely the Scarlet Guard can handle whatever it is.”
Nel frowned, buckling onto her forearms leather bracers studded with throwing daggers. She pulled on her tunic and bent again to retrieve her pants. “The Guard will defend the queen, surely. But there are others in Saltstone that need protection.”
“The apprentices. Keilan.”
“Yes.”
Xin threw back the blanket and stood, the chill air licking his naked body.
Nel’s gaze lingered on him appraisingly. “Let’s hope it’s nothing, and I can get you back in bed quickly.”
Xin smiled back at her, but his expression changed when the faint sound of clashing steel carried into the chamber.
He snatched his leather cuirass and swordbelt from where they hung on the wall and quickly donned both, while Nel reached under her pillow and pulled out Chance and Fate, the daggers vanishing into hidden folds in her clothes.
“Vhelan?” Xin asked as she headed for the door.
“I’ll wake him,” Nel replied, then disappeared into the hallway. Xin followed her, his sword in his hand.
“Wake up, boss!” the knife yelled, pounding on the door to the magister’s chamber. While she tried to rouse the sorcerer Xin listened hard, hoping to catch the sounds of battle again.
Finally, Vhelan opened his door a crack. “Garazon’s black balls, Nel,” he slurred, swaying slightly in the entrance. “What is the matter?”
“Saltstone is under attack. Get your robes on.”
The sorcerer blinked bloodshot eyes, as if he was struggling to understand what his knife was saying. “Attack? That’s impossible.”
“Listen,” Xin said sharply. A scream, suddenly cut short. Again came the shriek of steel, and not from very far away.
Vhelan vanished back into his chamber, then emerged moments later in robes that nearly matched the color of his bloodshot eyes. He groaned and rubbed his temple, shaking his head as if to clear away the cobwebs. “I hope there’s a Skein warband camped outside that I can call down the wrath of the gods upon. I have an overwhelming desire to inflict pain on whoever is forcing me to be awake right now.”
“They are inside, not outside,” Xin said, motioning for them to follow him.
“Come, the sounds came from this direction.”
He led them down corridors hung with faded tapestries and lit by torches set into iron brackets. After a few twists and turns they nearly collided with a hurrying older servant. The man’s watery blue eyes widened in fear when he saw them, but he relaxed when Vhelan stepped forward in his magister robes and held up his hands placatingly.
“Calm, we are friends. What is happening?”
The old man pointed back the way he’d come. “There!” he cried, his voice cracking, “Hennus and Thale are dead! I – I – I saw it kill ’em, knives comin’ out of the darkness – ”
Again the rending sound of steel from farther ahead, and Xin pushed past the stammering servant. He rounded the corner and skidded to a halt, trying to process what it was he was seeing.
Two servants in Dymorian livery were sprawled at the end of the corridor, blood soaking their white tunics. A tall warrior wearing the red cloak of the Scarlet Guard stood above them, turning frantically as if trying to catch sight of a hidden enemy and slashing his sword at empty air. Briefly Xin thought this man must be the murderer, either a disguised assassin or simply crazed, but after a moment he realized that no blood darkened his blade.
“Guardsman!” he shouted, and the man whirled to face him with wild eyes. “Who killed these two?”
The warrior continued to wave his sword like a madman, thrusting
at nothing. “The night!” he screamed at Xin. “The night is alive, we must warn the queen – ”
Something emerged from the man’s chest, his steel breastplate parting like silk. It was a length of blackness, the way it tapered to a curving point reminding Xin of the sword wielded by the Shan from the caravan, the one who had been slain by the monster that had murdered his brothers. The man dropped his sword, staring in numb shock at what was protruding from his body. His mouth worked soundlessly, a flower of blood blooming on the tabard that covered his breastplate. The spreading darkness quickly obscured the sinuous red dragon of Dymoria.
Then the unearthly blade withdrew from the Scarlet Guardsman, and he crumpled to the stone floor. Standing behind him was a man dressed all in black, the lower half of his face covered by a silken veil. Xin was certain, madly enough, that moments before this man had not been there. It was like he had simply stepped from the shadows cast by the guttering torches.
“Kith’ketan!” Vhelan gasped, and the shock flooding Xin momentarily rooted him to the ground. Could it possibly be one of the legendary assassins? Here? Why?
The man regarded them calmly for a moment and then stepped backward into the shadows, vanishing. Xin started forward, his grip on his sword’s hilt suddenly slick with sweat. Where had the assassin gone?
Instinct saved his life. He heard a faint sound, like surf hissing on a sandy shore, and he threw himself forward, rolling when he hit the floor and then coming again to his feet. The man in black stood behind him, his shadowy blade still extended where Xin had been a moment ago, the eyes above his veil round with surprise that the Fist warrior had avoided his strike.
Nel lunged forward, daggers flashing, but the man faded again into the darkness, and her blades cut nothing.
“Stay away from the shadows!” Xin cried, moving closer to one of the torches while his gaze roamed the corridor, alert for any sign of movement.
One of Nel’s daggers disappeared back up her sleeve and she grabbed Vhelan’s arm, yanking the sorcerer towards Xin. “This isn’t very fair,” she said, and Xin almost smiled at the annoyance he heard in her voice.
Something occurred to him in a flash of insight. “Vhelan! Summon wizardlight, as bright as you can!”
The sorcerer blinked slowly, as if trying to comprehend what Xin had said, then realization dawned and he began muttering an incantation. A brilliant white radiance flooded the passage, overwhelming the torchlight and banishing every shred of darkness . . . and also revealing the kith’ketan, sliding along the wall toward them with his blade of shimmering black poised to strike.
The Fist warrior surged forward, screaming a battle cry, and the startled assassin barely had time to bring his sword up to meet Xin’s attack. The force of his blow staggered the shadowblade, and Xin pressed the advantage by following his initial strike with a series of sweeping cuts that the man in black just managed to parry. He was quick and skilled, but Xin doubted that the assassin ever had to fight like this, without the advantages conferred by his strange powers.
The hilt of a dagger sprouted in the shadowblade’s shoulder, and his sword-arm faltered. Xin took advantage of this opening and stepped inside his guard, burying his steel in the assassin’s stomach. The eyes above the veil widened again, this time in pain, and when Xin wrenched his weapon free the shadowblade collapsed soundlessly, the ebony hilt of his sword slipping from his fingers as he tried to use his hands to keep his entrails from spilling out. He slumped forward, the dark blade on the floor beside him beginning to glimmer faintly. A moment later it fell apart into a sword-shaped outline of fine black dust.
The pounding of many boots approached, and suddenly the passage was flooded by Dymorian guardsmen. The red-cloaked warrior leading them blinked, shielding his eyes from the blazing wizardlight, and took in the sight of the three of them standing over the crumpled assassin and the slain Scarlet Guardsman. He bowed his head when he noticed Vhelan’s robes.
“My lord, are you all right?”
The sorcerer let his wizardlight fade. “Yes. This man was a shadowblade, as incredible as that sounds. I saw him walk between the darknesses myself.”
The Scarlet Guardsman nodded. “There is more than this one. They are killing magisters all over Saltstone. We were coming to your quarters in the hopes you yet lived.”
Vhelan ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “The queen?”
The Scarlet Guardsman swallowed. “I’m not sure . . . rumors are flying. There was an explosion in Ravenroost, the top of the tower was destroyed. Kwan Lo-Ren went to find her. Then these assassins emerged from the shadows, hunting down magisters, and we’ve been trying to catch them, but when we do they just melt into the darkness.”
“Wizardlight,” Nel said, rolling over the dead assassin and retrieving her dagger. “Have magisters accompany every group of guardsmen. When you find one of these bastards summon enough light that they cannot disappear into the shadows.”
The Scarlet Guardsman’s eyes brightened. “Yes, of course.” He addressed the warriors behind him, most of whom were staring at the dead shadowblade with unease and dread. “Delion, Malachai, Vix. Run back to the hall where we’ve gathered the magisters. Tell whoever is in command what Lady Nel just said. Now go.”
He turned to the magister as the three warriors hurried back the way they’d come. “And what shall we do, my lord?”
Vhelan bit his lip. “Nel, you and Xin should make for the apprentice quarters. Find Keilan and keep him safe.”
“And where will you go?” his knife asked.
“To Ravenroost, with the captain here and his men. I must see to the queen.”
Nel snorted. “I’m coming with you.”
Vhelan shook his head firmly. “No. If these assassins are hunting those with the gift then they will also come for the children.”
Nel’s face twisted, but after a moment she nodded grudgingly. “Very well – be careful, boss. I’ll see you soon.”
Vhelan reached out and gripped her arm affectionately. Then he glanced at Xin. “Keep her safe.”
“You have this one’s word that I will, sorcerer.”
Alyanna sucked in her breath when she reached the top of the spiraling stairs and saw what devastation her sorcery had wrought. The summit of Ravenroost had been cracked open like an egg: great chunks of the cupola that had crowned the tower had fallen, and now were strewn among shattered tables and charred corpses. The night sky was visible through these massive rents in the ceiling, and a chill wind reached down to sweep over the scattered debris. The walls were likewise riddled with gaps where the magical energies had punched through the stone, and the one section of the tower where she could see no obvious holes was still fissured by deep cracks.
Sometimes she didn’t know her own strength.
The light from the lone mistglobe still hanging from what remained of the ceiling was completely subsumed by the blazing white radiance of the three spheres of wizardlight suspended over the devastation. The magisters who had cast those spells were clustered a ways off, turned from her and intent on something on the ground. Alyanna could guess what lay there.
She began to pick her way carefully through the rubble towards them. A tall warrior in a red cloak standing near the magisters noticed her approaching and hailed her. “Girl!” he cried in the clipped accent of the Shan. “Did Terys find you? Are the healers here?”
Alyanna lifted up the hem of her skirt as she stepped over the still-bubbling body of a magister, the remnants of his – or her – robes fused to blackened flesh. “No. The healers are not here.”
The Shan warrior flinched at her tone, and she saw his hand stray to the hilt of his sword. “Then what are you doing here, girl? Who are you?”
“I’ve come to pay my respects to your queen,” she said lightly, and made a dismissive gesture in his direction.
An invisible wind lifted the Scarle
t Guardsman from his feet and flung him against a wall with bone-shattering force. As he tumbled to the floor, leaving a smear of blood upon the stone, the three magisters whirled around, incantations spilling from their mouths as sorcery coalesced around their fluttering fingers.
Those without Talent were just glacially slow.
Alyanna stretched out her hand and willed into existence three crackling lances of blue energy. She flung the bolts across the chamber, and though one magister managed to finish his chanting and erect a rudimentary ward the lance pierced it like it was a soap bubble and all three magisters collapsed, fist-sized holes burned into their chests.
Too easy. Alyanna shook her head as she approached where the magisters had been gathered. What she had told Demian was true: the queen and her plans to rejuvenate sorcery posed a very real threat to those who had survived the breaking of the world. Only a Talent like the queen with a school of wizards behind her could eventually discover Alyanna and what she had done. Thus she must be destroyed – but, if Alyanna was honest with herself, she had hoped that Cein d’Kara would prove a worthy adversary. It had been a long time since anyone had truly challenged her. Instead, her carefully-laid plains had come seamlessly to fruition, every piece on the gameboard fulfilling its role perfectly.
Alyanna realized that what she had thought was a corpse sprawled across a chunk of the fallen ceiling was actually the body of the Bard. What a tragic fool. She had given him the greatest gift anyone could possibly receive, and he had rejected it, choosing to cling to the etiolated memories of a vanished past. But Alyanna did feel a flicker of emotion as she came to stand over his body, and she gently closed his staring eyes. The world would be less beautiful after this night.
“Goodnight, my Bard,” Alyanna whispered, bending down to brush his lips with her own.
He tasted the same as he had a thousand years ago, when they had kissed for the first time in the vaulted, marmoreal hall of the Lesser Gendern, while the dancers swirled around them and the stars floated above crooning their mysterious sad songs. Soft, full lips. Warm lips and warm –
