Dim as their cell was around them, it was impossible to read his partner’s face. The dismay in his voice, however, was palpable and clear. “Who is it? Who’s dead?”
Fretfully Kestar shook his head, eyes closing and opening again, until his pulse began to settle and he could speak more clearly. “Yes. No. Damn it, I don’t know! It’s not Faanshi.” He was certain of that much, at least, though the urgency thrumming through him refused to fade. “But I don’t know who. Gods, Cel, what if it’s my mother?”
Cel’s hand found his shoulder and squeezed it. “We’ll see her again,” he promised. “Both of us.”
The words were bright but brittle, and Kestar had to fight down the urge to shout at his partner. He’s only trying to help, he ordered himself sternly, but his gut churned regardless, for he could see no way that he’d lay eyes upon Lady Ganniwer again unless the Church brought her in to stand as a witness for his Cleansing. Or worse yet, as a fellow prisoner.
Before he could say anything at all, though, gunshots resounded somewhere outside the jailhouse walls. With them came the roar of a furious crowd, and Kestar and Celoren nearly scrambled over one another in their haste to reach their cell’s one window, over Kestar’s own bunk. Kes got there first, and once he could see outside, he gaped in active shock.
A rabble was gathering, and in their midst he caught sight of the flag of Adalonia, resplendent with the four-pointed star of the Church of the Four Gods. It was on fire.
“Nirrivy will rise! Nirrivy will rise!”
Celoren clambered up onto the bunk beside him, leaning in for his own view out the window. “What in the name of the gods?”
“A riot,” Kestar said, unable to believe what he saw. “With a Hawk patrol in town.”
Even as he spoke, Captain Amarsaed, Bron Wulsten and Jekke Yerredes charged down the street on their horses, heading straight for the crowd and causing several of them to scatter. Yet that wasn’t the end of the surprises, for behind them came the sound of jangling keys and Captain Follingsen’s voice ringing out in the darkness.
“Father Enverly, wake up. In the interests of your security I’ve come to move you to a better location.”
Kestar and Celoren looked at each other, frowning, and Kes called out, “What about us?”
Follingsen paused at their cell door. The man was as rumpled as they from their long ride, but by the light of the lamp he carried they could see he was fully armed—and by that light, they saw his face set with stony determination. “All due respect, sir, but I’ve got my orders. And they involve only the priest.”
He went past them to the jailhouse’s other cell, unlocked the door and escorted Shaymis Enverly out into the night. Kestar and Celoren could only watch them go, and wonder exactly what they’d just witnessed—and whether they themselves would live to see Shalridan at all.
* * *
Lomhannor Hall, Kilmerry Province, Jomhas 29,
AC 1876
It was in all fairness the finest bit of distraction Enverly had seen in years, perhaps even since the war, and one he’d have been proud to orchestrate himself. But as it was he was all too pleased to follow Captain Follingsen’s lead and let the man, along with his two companions from their patrol, hustle him out of Marriham. Four men leaving the town under the cover of darkness were practically invisible against a burgeoning riot with fire and rebellious shouting and gunfire. The burning flag had been a particularly evocative touch.
His last sight of Vaarsen’s and Valleford’s shocked faces as Follingsen had set him free cheered him throughout the entire night, enough that he willingly bore the strain of riding all night so that they could put as much distance between themselves and Pol Amarsaed’s patrol as possible. By the time the sun rose the next morning, they’d reached Camden.
Follingsen’s party took Enverly not to his cottage behind the church but straight to Lomhannor Hall. He’d stayed there before when the duke had felt particularly generous, and on such occasions a suite had been set aside for his personal use. This time, it made tactical sense. The town was too public for him to be seen openly on the streets, at least until he could learn what news had spread of Kilmerredes’s death, as well as what had happened to him.
Not to mention that he was hardly in any condition to field curious questions, much less resume his place as the resident priest of the town. Or any mood. Enverly had no wish to see misguided pity in the eyes of the townsfolk; the sheer thought of such emotion on their faces was enough to make him want to howl in fury. Since he could no longer do that, he would have settled for taking up a weapon, any weapon, and smashing it through wood or stone or flesh. And, lacking a weapon, he was grateful—sourly, but grateful nonetheless—that the Duchess Khamsin had seen fit to grant him as much privacy as possible.
Eventually she’d want to see him, he was sure. But until then, he took advantage of the hospitality provided, and of the young footman assigned him as a valet. Much of his wardrobe had been brought up from his cottage, and once he’d bathed, shaved and put on far fresher clothing, Enverly began to feel human enough to receive her. He couldn’t bear to take any food or water while the footman was present, though, and banished the boy into the corridor so that he could try to sip tea unobserved.
The duchess, though, gave him little chance to wait.
She gave the footman enough time to announce her, but only just, stalking into the room with the loose-limbed stride of a desert lioness, then ordering him out of the room once more. Enverly rose from the chair he’d taken by the fireplace, inclined his head and held up his slate so she could see what he’d written on it in advance.
Forgive my lack of conversation, Your Grace. Will you have a seat? Tea?
“Thank you.” With the same regal grace, Khamsin claimed the chair that faced him, and accepted the cup of spiced black tea he poured for her. At the sight of him taking some for himself, her dark brows rose. “You can bear to drink? Though I suppose that in your situation, I should like the reminder that I yet lived.”
The observation was apt; the tea scalded his abused mouth almost unbearably, enough that he could take no more than the tiniest sip at a time. Yet the flavor of it, rich and textured stuff that he knew to have come from Khamsin’s homeland, was a goad to his senses. Later, perhaps, he would write to ask for laudanum. For now, he merely offered the duchess a thin smile of acknowledgement. Then, after a moment, he did wipe the slate clean and write again.
My condolences upon the loss of your husband.
To that, Khamsin smiled narrowly in return. “I should offer you the same, for he was almost more your friend than my own wedded lord. Did you think I never noticed? For eighteen years I was loyal to him, far more loyal than my weak little sister. I bore him strong and healthy heirs. But not once did he include me in your private counsels.” She drank down the tea with vigor before setting the cup ahead and fixing her stare upon his face. “Until the end. After your Anreulag broke him, and before my accursed kinswoman took his life even as he took hers—”
Enverly scowled and held up a hand to interrupt. Ulima killed him? She is also dead?
“She was old, yet she could still defend herself like a woman of Clan Sarazen. And if my husband in his madness came to her in the night to strike her down, I cannot fault her for that, at least. Much as it pains me to admit it.” Khamsin grimaced, then focused her gaze anew upon him. “I won’t ask you now to tell me of what befell you in the abbey, though I will have paper, ink and pen brought to you, and I would have you write it down for me in your own time. For now, I have testimony enough from Captain Follingsen and the other guards who were with you. But I will ask you this. Was that the last time you saw my lord?”
No. I saw him once after. He raved about the girl.
“I expect he did. He spoke to me of only two things before he died—how that casteless chit of a slave survived the Voice, and of his guilt at the failure of his plans. This land was Nirrivy once. He longed for it to be Nirrivy again.”
; Enverly took in the sight of her. The duchess had grown thinner and harder of face since he’d seen her last. While her gaze didn’t burn with the same religious fervor as Captain Follingsen’s—or for that matter, her late husband’s—there was nonetheless a glittering intensity there he’d never seen before. And with challenge in his own gaze, he wrote once more.
Why do you care about Nirrivy?
“Would it surprise you to learn, akreshi, that I loved my lord? I’m not of this land, but he was, and so are his children. For them, I’ll take up my husband’s cause.”
That’s not all. His next words on the slate were stark and almost accusing in their simplicity, but Enverly let them stand.
The duchess did smile then, with a cool, satisfied appraisal. “Your wits remain unimpaired, despite what befell you. Good. I have need of your acumen. Will you serve me as you did my husband? Will you take up your place again, to see the land of Nirrivy restored? You will have all the privacy and comforts this Hall can provide, and its protection in days to come.”
What do you get in return?
“Your counsel on how to win the minds and hearts of the people, for one. Don’t think, akreshi, that I’ve never noticed how many of your people react to those whose faces are brown, no matter how long we’ve lived among you.” Khamsin’s tone darkened with contempt, though her gaze remained alight, scrutinizing him, as if she sought to glean straight from his face what his lost voice would have given instead. “And for another...you know how to call the Anreulag.”
Here then was the heart of it; Enverly would have laughed if he’d been able. Instead he raised his eyebrows and gestured meaningfully at his mouth, and it didn’t surprise him in the slightest to hear the duchess chuckle, rich and low.
“Ah, no, you can hardly do it yourself now, can you? But I can. Teach me the words to call and bind the Voice of the Gods, and I will give you everything my lord promised you and more.” Casually now, she took up the teapot and poured two more cups of the fragrant tea, one for each of them. “If we are very clever, who knows? Perhaps we can even restore the voice of Shaymis Enverly.”
His interest, already sharpened, sliced out across his thoughts with an almost painful intensity. We would need Faanshi for that.
“This is true. I can tell you, akreshi, that in any other circumstance I would care little for whether my sister’s spawn runs free in the woods. I certainly do not claim her as Clan. But if what the guards say of her is true, she turned aside the Anreulag.”
Khamsin held out the cup she’d poured for him, the ease of her stance at one with the anticipation in her eyes. Oh yes, she was a lioness. Or at least she fancied herself one; perhaps she saw herself as the true lion’s heart of Lomhannor Hall, on the hunt now for the greatest prey she would ever pursue in her life.
Whether she would prove a better patron than his lost lord remained to be seen. But Enverly could not resist the temptation to put her to the test. She did. I saw it.
As soon his final word took shape Khamsin smiled, bright and broad.
“My lord had his prejudices against the Hidden Ones. I don’t share them. If Nirrivy is to rise again, akreshi, I suggest that it would suit us well to call them to our banner. We can either take the Anreulag for our own—or take the only person in living memory to meet and match her power. Either way, it is a victory. And if we have the girl, we have the means to give you back what you lost.”
Approval coursed through Enverly. He didn’t trust the duchess, not yet, but he began to think that he might respect her. Bargains had been made throughout history on worse foundations than that. If she could deliver what she promised, it would be all the better.
My lady, I am at your command.
Then he saluted her with his tea.
Chapter Eleven
On the road to Shalridan, Kilmerry Province,
Jomhas 28, AC 1876
Gods damn it all, it’s for the best.
For several hours Julian and Rab headed south from the woods the elves controlled. Much to Julian’s relief, for Morrigh had barely had any time to rest in Dolmerrath, they found no new Hawk patrols. He didn’t need to press the stallion to his fastest speeds, and as long as they remained cautious, it was safe enough to stop as necessary to sustain Morrigh’s strength. Not to mention his own.
To be sure, Julian’s muscles relished the burst in his activity, and his spirit couldn’t help but take flight at the unlooked-for gift of Nine-fingered Rab returning to his side. There was no other option, really. His partner had made his disdain for the elves plain, and if Julian was going to return to his chosen calling, he needed Rab more than he’d ever done before. They’d have to work together to get him back into fighting form, and to find new ways to take down their targets now that most of his old ones had been rendered irrelevant. And they could even take advantage of how he’d changed, for the Rook was known to lack an eye and a hand. If they were careful, if they were clever, they could make this into a whole new weapon in their considerable arsenal.
After all, they were assassins. Not nursemaids, not warriors, not rebels, not what the elves needed for the success of their cause.
Yet as they made their way inland from the coastal woods, all Julian could see in his mind’s eye was Faanshi’s stricken face. She hadn’t breathed a word of complaint to him, not even when he’d kissed her—the surest sign of all that he needed to put as much distance between himself and the girl as possible.
Not that he could dismiss her from consideration, not yet, for amazement blazed like a signal fire in Rab’s face. His partner however knew better than to interrogate him in the saddle, and mercifully seemed to realize when Julian’s strength began to flag. He got them into the first inn they could find on the road that led to Shalridan, a place whose name Julian didn’t bother to note. His vision had remained clear, but weariness summoned back his headache, and his entire right arm ached with the exertion of hours of riding.
What food Rab might have fetched for them Julian couldn’t have said, for he scarcely noticed any qualities past hot and filling. But the pear cider was good, with a crisp, dry bite to it, and Julian was nursing a second welcome mug of the stuff when Rab’s curiosity finally exploded out of him.
“Rook...what the nine bloody hells?”
Tiredly Julian leaned back in his chair, resting his aching head against the wall behind him. “I already told you the basics.”
“Yes, but...” It wasn’t often that Nine-fingered Rab was at a loss for words, and his attention kept flashing between Julian’s altered face and the hand he’d rested upon the table. “Damn it, I was afraid I’d never work a job with you again. And now you’re telling me that girl almost got you killed.”
“She also saved my life. For starters.” Julian smirked down at his right hand, and then leveled a determined stare on his partner. “I need to learn to accommodate what she did. Fast. Will you spar with me? I’ve got to practice, and we’ve got to plan.”
Rab brightened, nodding eagerly, though Julian noted once more the traces of exhaustion that had ravaged his face—and the spark of bitterness in his eyes. “One thing before that, though. You kissed her.”
Julian scowled into his drink. “I might’ve known you wouldn’t let that go unremarked.”
“I knew you liked the little chit!” As Julian snapped his scowl back up to him Rab held up a placating hand, grimaced and added reluctantly, “All right, I knew you liked her. Are you planning on doing it again?”
For a moment Julian could make no reply, for fragments of memory sparked across his senses: the texture of Faanshi’s hair, the warm shape of her in his arms and, most maddening of all, the slow rhythm of her fingertips against his brow in half-remembered fragments of memory, where he was sure she’d massaged his brow as he dozed. He had to knock back more of his cider to distract himself from the thought of sleeping without the girl beside him—a notion fraught with implications he didn’t want to begin to consider. “Not if I can help it,” he said when he
could finally speak.
There was more he could have said, any one of the arguments he’d been making with himself ever since he’d woken up in Dolmerrath. The beauty of having Nine-fingered Rab as a compatriot, though, was that Julian didn’t have to utter a word of it. Rab craved what he did. Neither of them took particular pleasure in the actual kill. But the challenge of the hunt, the eluding of pursuit, and the surety of payment in their pockets were the things the two of them had prized above all else from the first day Julian had taken Rab on as a partner.
He wanted those things back again, to ground himself anew in their clear simplicity. And seeing the younger man’s face light up told him, to his deep satisfaction, that his partner wanted them too.
“Good,” Rab said.
Of Faanshi, he didn’t say another word.
* * *
Shalridan, Kilmerry Province, Jomhas 30, AC 1876
It took another day and a half for them to reach Shalridan, and throughout the journey, nightmares dogged what little sleep Julian allowed himself. They showed themselves at first as old familiar demons. Once again, as he’d been doing in Julian’s sleep for the past twelve years, his brother Cleon took his eye and his hand while Dulcinea turned away from him in scorn. Through it all, his other brother Erasmus, the architect of his destruction, was laughing. Lightning and flame devouring his entire body, though, was new. So were the glimpses of Dulcinea becoming someone else, her blond hair turning black, her fair skin dusky gold, before the fire engulfed her too.
Rab, to his relief, gave no sign that he’d noticed anything amiss. After jolting awake twice out of such dreams, Julian resolved to avoid giving him the chance. When they weren’t riding or refreshing themselves, he hurled himself into exercise. Strengthening his right arm was paramount, but so too was restoring his quickness and aim, and for that there was no better sparring partner than Rab. Julian had never matched his partner’s dexterity even in his best physical condition, and Rab gleefully took on the task of teaching him to juggle. Not with his knives, not yet, but Julian was pleased enough to focus on practicing with the set of rubber balls Rab carried in his saddlebag. More complex demonstrations were Rab’s province alone, and twice on the way into the city, he turned teaching Julian into an opportunity to earn them coin by juggling for the interested passersby who stopped to watch.
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