Knight Avenged (Circle of Seven #2)

by Coreene Callahan

  The thought sped through his head even as he tried to shut it down. He didn’t want to think about it anymore, but . . . devil take him. He couldn’t let it go. Or live with the humiliation. His lip curled off his upper teeth. What a catastrophe.

  The Seven posed a serious threat. They were far too cunning for anyone’s good.

  Not surprising. To be expected even. Each warrior had been raised by the Order of Assassins. Fostered inside Grey Keep. Trained by him to be formidable assassins without conscience or mercy. He’d succeeded . . . marvelously. Add that to the magic he’d seen the bastards wield and . . . Halál frowned. ’Twas more than a problem. Set aside the combined viciousness of the group for a moment. Forget about Henrik’s vendetta and the warrior’s drive to make him pay for past pain. Combined, The Seven were impressive. But possessed of unlimited power derived from the Goddess of All Things? Well now, that signaled trouble. Throw a trio of dragons into the mix and . . .

  Halál’s eyes narrowed.

  Aye. Without a doubt. He needed to find a solution to the scaly beasts. The Seven’s alliance with The Three qualified as a huge advantage and a serious hurdle. One he must eliminate posthaste if he wanted to survive. And the Druinguari to thrive. Armand might accept an occasional setback, but not continued failure. Neither did Halál, under ordinary circumstances. These, though, were anything but ordinary. His former pupils knew his tactics well.

  Proof positive lay in the aftermath of battle.

  The betrayers had outmaneuvered him inside the gorge, turning his trap into their own. The ambush reeked of Henrik. The son of a bitch knew how to plan and execute, ensuring maximum damage in the process. A worthy adversary. On par with Xavian and just as lethal. He’d always liked that about Henrik. Until now. He’d lost three more Druinguari to the folly and the fight. Which meant he needed to rethink everything. All of his strategies along with how he implemented each one. Otherwise the assassins who now opposed him would gain more ground.

  Unacceptable. Nowhere near optimal. Circumstances in need of change.

  Mind churning, Halál flipped up and over, getting into position as his flight slowed. The vortex contracted around him. A pinprick of light expanded in the gloom, widening into a circle. Gaze locked on the opening, he spotted familiar terrain beyond the mist. A thinning forest, icy branches reaching for sunny skies. Jagged rock jutting from sheer cliff faces. Sloping valleys rising to meet snowcapped mountain peaks. Thick castle walls came into view. Muscles tense and body ready, he braced, preparing for impact. Any moment now. Just a few more seconds and—

  The vortex funneled into a curve over the inner bailey and set down.

  His feet thumped against slick cobblestone.

  Hitting one knee, Halál bowed his head and waited for the fog to retreat. He heard his soldiers land behind him. Black tendrils released him one finger at a time, leaving him kneeling in the center of Grey Keep’s courtyard. High winds buffeted his back. As it blew across the nape of his neck, he pushed to his feet and scanned the battlements rising beyond the Keep. No one stood on the high wall, awaiting him. Which meant Valmont had yet to return home. Halál nodded in satisfaction. His first in command’s absence was an excellent sign. Adept at carrying out orders—even better at covert missions—Valmont must still be at White Temple . . .

  Executing members of the Blessed.

  The knowledge reassured him. The sudden urge to return to the holy city almost overwhelmed him. He cursed the vortex again. If only the magic would listen. If only he could find the key to controlling it. If only he could transport himself to White Temple and assist Valmont in the killings. But wishing and wanting never made a thing so. Practice coupled with the mind-ease of meditation, however, just might, so . . .

  Time to put the day’s disappointment behind him. And start making plans for the future.

  Rolling his shoulders to work out the tension, Halál glanced over his shoulder. Flame-orange eyes met his. He nodded, acknowledging his second in command.

  Beauvic tipped his chin. “Your orders?”

  “Gather the eleven-year-olds,” Halál said, the need for violence rising. He yearned for it more than an opium addict wanted a fix. Brutality always evened him out, and after today, he required peace . . . if not quiet. Watching the boys battle in the fighting pit would smooth out the rough edges left by a bad day. Well that, and something else too. Aye, he might owe his allegiance to Armand now, but Grey Keep and its traditions lived on. Boys would continue to be captured, kept, and trained as assassins, but for a new aim: filling Druinguari ranks instead of Al Pacii, ensuring his army grew. “Put them through their paces.”

  “Hand-to-hand?”

  A kernel of excitement bloomed. Halál’s mouth curved. “Round shields and short knives.”

  Silent per usual, Beauvic didn’t say a word.

  “Time to cull the wheat from the chaff, Beauvic,” Halál said, holding his second in command’s gaze. “Let us see who deserves to remain among us.”

  With a nod, Beauvic turned toward the barracks and the boys. Halál strode in the opposite direction, toward the Keep and his bedchamber. He longed to see Beauty. Needed to stroke her fine scales and feel her weight as he watched the fight from the rooftop overlooking the pit. Combat would begin within the hour. He wanted to assess each fledgling. Determine their strengths. Assess the weaknesses. Watch every move and knife slash. Witness all the damage done and each blood droplet fall, but . . .

  First things first.

  He must send out the call, request an audience with Armand. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but Halál refused to hide the day’s setback. Or avoid his new master. Naught but disaster lay in that direction. The truth must be told. Questions needed to be asked and answered. Insight, after all, led to information. Knowledge equaled understanding, which precipitated power. The kind that toppled kingdoms and brought great men to their knees.

  Nothing different there.

  He’d lived long enough to understand every man possessed a fatal flaw. A weak spot, whether rooted in the collective interests or individual defects. He must discover each one to ensure he inflected maximum damage. Armand would supply what he required—insight and guidance, power and increased skill . . . all the spells Halál requested. An advantage to be sure, except for one thing . . .

  Armand would punish him for his failure.

  A great deal of agony would ensue. Halál shrugged off the certainty along with the threat. Pain wasn’t the problem. He could handle anything the dark one threw at him. But as he mounted the steps, he left nothing to chance, practicing what he would say to his new master. Bad news first. Good news second. Aye, ’twas no doubt the best strategy. Particularly since relaying the news that Valmont sat at the heart of the enemy—inside White Temple, doing exactly what Armand expected, decimating the Blessed to ensure the goddess lost ground—would improve Armand’s mood. Which without a doubt would see Halál’s punishment reduced a hundredfold.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Sliding to a stop on icy cobblestones, Cosmina took cover behind a small cottage. Back flat against its stone wall, she paused to catch her breath . . . and prayed she’d gone undetected. ’Twas hard to tell. She couldn’t hear much of anything. Her heart refused to cooperate, pounding inside her chest, making blood rush in her ears and listening almost impossible. Nowhere near optimal. Even more dangerous. Cold nipping at her, she pressed her hand against the wall of her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.

  Gods, she needed to pull herself together. Right now. This instant. Before she gave herself away. If that happened, she wouldn’t last long inside White Temple.

  Not now that the Druinguari stood inside the gates.

  Fear tightened its grip, squeezing around her rib cage. She fought the lockdown and forced her lungs open, refusing to let terror win. No matter how afraid, she needed to go on. Her mission left no room for hesitation. One way or another, she must find the others—intercept the Blessed, secret each one to safety, and ensur
e all arrived home in one piece. ’Twas a lofty task and a terrible undertaking, but she could do it. The goddess had chosen her for a reason, trusted her to be strong, well able to navigate peril and city streets crawling with enemy soldiers. Gritting her teeth, Cosmina stifled a huff. All right. So crawling might be overstating it a bit. She hadn’t, after all, encountered one yet, but . . .

  She knew the blackguards were out there. Somewhere. Surveying the whole city. Lying in wait. Preparing to kill her along with her sisters in the Order of Orm.

  Panic threatened again. Cosmina shoved it aside.

  A clear mind, not one clouded by dread, was an absolute must. The Druinguari weren’t stupid. Master assassins with more skill in their little fingers than she possessed in her entire throwing arm, the group epitomized smart. The infernal beasts had spread out. One stood on the battlements along the east wall. Another atop the west and . . . well, she didn’t know about the south. Hadn’t seen one when she’d slipped through the postern gate to the north earlier. But that didn’t mean an enemy assassin wasn’t out there now. Concealed in shadow. Ready to sound the alarm the moment she came into view. Which meant she needed to find better cover before her luck ran out.

  The realization made her stomach ache.

  Ignoring the discomfort, balanced on the balls of her feet, Cosmina adjusted her shoulder strap instead. Her satchel obeyed with a persistent tug, settling against her hip as she contemplated her next move. A map of the city morphed in her mind’s eye. She searched for the best way through the maze of streets, back alleys, and main thoroughfares. Her target? The rose garden abutting the south parapet. ’Twas a bold maneuver, a strategy that would put her under the enemy’s nose . . . and the Druinguari keeping watch at that end of White Temple. But few other options existed. The wall at the rear of the garden—beyond the old oak—was the best alternative. She knew the terrain well and . . .

  The door concealed within the wall even better.

  A few clicks of her key, and she would be through, stepping out of danger and into the secret passageway. Deep inside the complex warren of underground tunnels beneath the holy city. Able to access every part of it without detection. An undeniable advantage. Particularly since it would allow her to intercept her sisters. Pull each one inside the underground labyrinth before the Druinguari registered their presence. An excellent strategy, but for one thing. She must save herself first and reach a secret door hidden in plain sight. Which meant . . .

  She needed to move.

  Remaining in one spot for too long wasn’t smart.

  Inhaling through her nose, Cosmina exhaled through her mouth. Frigid air picked up the current, turning each breath into a white puff. In. Out. Catch and release. The breathing method worked. Her heart slowed beat by beat, allowing her to hear again. Tilting her head, she listened hard. No scrape of footfalls. No murmur of deep voices. Naught but the whistle of wind through narrow alleys and empty thoroughfares.

  Preparing to shift positions, she pressed her hand flat against the wall. Dirty snow pushed between her fingers as Cosmina peeked around the cornerstone. Main Street sliced between buildings, racing past stone facades with shuttered windows. She released a pent-up breath. No movement on the thoroughfare. Or in the large market square beyond it. Just trim houses set in row upon neat row. All shared the same look—whitewashed on the outside, thatched roofs overhead—every one of them abandoned, awaiting the day the residents returned and White Temple thrived once more.

  Too much to hope for? A last-ditch effort in a losing game of chance? Probably. And yet, despite everything, Cosmina wanted to believe . . . so many things. That she could find a true home with others of her kind. That the new High Priestess would be nothing like the last. That the Goddess of All Things knew what she was doing—had a plan, one that included Cosmina living long enough to see it succeed.

  “You listening?” she asked as she glanced skyward. Gods, she hoped the goddess heard her. Life with the Blessed, after all, was a whole lot better than death by Druinguari. Reaching for courage, Cosmina dragged her gaze from the heavens, and her mind from the Goddess of All Things. “All right now . . . enough stalling. Move it.”

  Blowing out a breath, Cosmina inched forward. Her fingers flexed around the dagger. The solid feel of it dragged unwanted memories to the surface as she scanned the street again. Henrik. His knife in her hand. His face in her head. Words written in a wretched note. I love you. Blast and damn him. Her gaze strayed to the wicked six-inch blade—sharp edge, beautiful lines, perfectly balanced, and . . . made for Henrik’s hand. Carried in a sheath over his heart. Given to her with love . . . in a moment he would no doubt call weakness. It didn’t matter. Whatever he chose to label it, Cosmina clung to the connection anyway . . . desperate to be more like him—strong, brave, and unafraid—while she remembered everything about him.

  So many things. Too many things.

  His kindness. The gentleness of his touch when he made love to her. The way he listened when she talked, as though she were the only woman in his world. The sound of his voice. ’Twas absurd, really. She was well past the point of redemption. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Cosmina shook her head. She must stop thinking about him. Henrik had chosen to leave her. Sad, but true. So enough with the heartbreak. She needed to face facts. She was on her own. Once again alone in the world. Free to make her own decisions. Unencumbered by another’s opinions and . . .

  Drat it all. She didn’t need him.

  Didn’t want him either.

  Her motto now. Words to live by. Now if only she could make herself believe it.

  Her brow furrowed, Cosmina rechecked her position. Now or never. Do or die. A new mantra, and one much more pressing than the last. Pushing from her crouch, she stayed low and sprinted across Main Street. Boots scuffing against the stone pavers underfoot, she skidded in tight against the next building and listened. All quiet. No flash of movement along the battlements overlooking the city streets. Both things to be thankful for, particularly since the Druinguari assassin atop the east parapet held a distinct advantage. Dressed to blend in, his back flat against the tower wall, he crouched atop the high wall. The perfect vantage point for him. Not so great for her. One wrong turn. Too much noise. The slightest mistake, and his gaze would snap in her direction. Which would lead to all sorts of nasty things . . .

  One of the beasts raising the alarm. Druinguari mobilization. Her capture by the enemy.

  The thought prompted her to get up and go. Knifepoint leading the way, the midday sun upon her shoulders, Cosmina ran, slinking between stone facades and into back alleyways. Mind working triple time, she scanned each street, every deserted storefront, and all the rooftops while moving with stealth between abandoned wagons and overturned barrels. Almost there. A few more turns. Five, mayhap six, more street corners to negotiate. One last door to find her way through, and she’d be home free. Deep inside the underground passageway and headed for—

  A scream shredded the silence.

  Fear sliced through her, making her stomach clench. Cosmina dodged right, taking cover behind a pile of timber beams. A shout went up. Unearthly growls accompanied the rapid hammer of footfalls. As sound funneled through the empty streets, Cosmina slid into a crouch, held her breath, and waited. Another earsplitting scream ripped through White Temple. Cosmina squeezed her eyes shut. Oh gods. Oh nay. She knew what that awful cry meant. She wasn’t the only woman inside the city. Not anymore. A member of the Blessed, one of her sisters, had heeded the call, returned to the temple . . .

  And walked straight into the Druinguari’s trap.

  “Great goddess of the shadow and light,” she whispered, falling into habit, reciting the prayer by heart as she turned back in the direction she’d come. No other choice. She refused to leave a member of the Blessed to die. Couldn’t stand the screams, never mind the thought of abandoning one of her own. Following the gut-wrenching cries for help, Cosmina sprinted down one alley after another, heart pounding, fear rising, mur
muring more of the prayer as she ran toward danger instead of away. “Grant me courage. Give me strength and allay my fears. Fill my heart with purpose and my mind with knowledge, shine your light upon me so that I might not only serve you well but succeed in the doing.”

  Old words taken from an ancient text.

  Ones she hadn’t recited in years. Yet in the moment, the prayer felt right, granting her what she needed most—know-how and enough nerve to move forward without fear.

  Slowing her pace, Cosmina tracked the voices. She frowned and, creeping around the next building corner, stopped to pinpoint their location. Eyes narrowed, she followed the sound of a scuffle. A horrible crack echoed, the sound of bone striking bone. The bastards were hitting her sister and—

  Another scream echoed through the city.

  Her attention snapped to the left. Her feet followed, directing her toward the next intersection. Slipping in behind the milliner’s shop, she took cover behind a half wall and, without making a sound, crept along its length. Her dagger tip glinted in the sunlight. The golden dome of High Temple rose above the rooftops. She peeked over the wall and . . . understanding struck. Goddess be with her. Double-damned beasts. The Druinguari were dragging her sister toward the courtyard outside the temple’s main entrance. The location made sense . . . in a sick, twisted sort of way. A place of worship and ceremony, the quadrangle sat at the heart of the city, the perfect location to kill a member of the Blessed. Doing so amounted to the highest form of sacrilege—blood on the stones, shame upon the house of the Blessed and White Temple.

  Revulsion rolled through her.

  Cosmina shoved it aside and, using the wall for cover, slid to a stop at the edge of the piazza. Forever the same, the large rectangular courtyard projected power, anchoring High Temple, standing strong at the base of wide stairs that rose to meet an imposing row of doors. Sunlight fell over the frieze carved in marble above the entrance, depicting the history and the importance of the Order of Orm, cementing her purpose. And yet she waited . . .