by Jeff Wheeler
Knowing that daylight would rob her of natural advantages, she prepared herself mentally. Hettie checked her weapons, making sure they were snug. The arrows were bunched together and tied off to prevent them from rattling inside the quiver. She re-laced her boots again, just to be sure they were tight; the soles were padded to prevent sound. From a pocket, she produced her shooting gloves and tugged them on.
The Bhikhu training had begun to occupy the foremost thoughts in her mind. Deliberately, she had to recall the lessons of the Romani. How to move with perfect stillness. How to control her breathing. The inner mechanisms that made locks function and how to release them without a key. The art of disguise and the myriad of subterfuges she was capable of. But it was different now. Before she had been serving the interests of Kiranrao in claiming the lost Paracelsus blade, the one known as Iddawc. She had been his puppet. That secret and the trust of her brother and Paedrin had cost her something. Now that she was free of the accursed earring, she felt a lightness in her chest she’d never experienced before. Yes, a Romani may try to threaten her again. Kiranrao might attempt to poison her—but she felt much more capable of avoiding the fate of other Romani women. Tyrus’s quest to banish the Plague had resulted in the banishment of her captivity. He had offered her a chance to live in Silvandom, safely beyond the Arch-Rike and the Romani’s reach. She gladly clung to that strand of hope.
With a supple spring, Hettie launched herself up the rope. She pulled with her arms and also pushed with her legs, twining herself up the vast length with easy grace. The quiet stretching of the rope mixed with little bursts of breath, which fogged out of her mouth and joined the vapors shrouding the land. But those sounds were tiny compared with the colossal crash of the waves against the rocks beneath her. The outer wall of the temple was covered with lichen, but it had been crafted of enormous stones and seemed determine to endure through the ages. Up she went, one pull at a time, gliding her way up to the tower.
The fog boiled around her, obscuring the encroaching sunlight. Her fingers burned with pain but she persevered, feeling the steady grip of the leather shooting gloves accepting the strands of rope snugly. Each pull was flawless. She ascended quickly. The light became more pronounced as the mist thinned. She emerged from its folds and found the dawn sky above her, bright and blue with traces of lavender. She reached the top of the wall but the tower continued up. Sounds reached her, reminding her of the training yard of the Bhikhu temple in Kenatos. Vivid memories of that place stung her mind—its life as well as its death. She heard grunts and the sound of fighting and bodies colliding. She wondered where Paedrin was, hidden in the mist somewhere near the main gates. As she continued up the rope, she listened for sounds from him. Her arm muscles throbbed with the effort, but she was strong and had only grown stronger with Paedrin’s training.
Scaling the tower wall, hand over hand, she paused for a moment and stared at the buttresses above. There were no stairs or ledges leading to it. There were no windows in the tower itself. She wondered, with it being a Vaettir stronghold originally, if there were even any stairs within it. An enemy would be hard-pressed to attack a place that could not be breached without tall ladders. She heard a voice coming from the training yard, but it was too distant to recognize the words or the identity of the speaker. With a smirk, Hettie was suddenly grateful for Paedrin’s bombastic side. She would have no trouble hearing him.
Hettie reached the lower edge of the buttress and grabbed the stone, admiring the quality of the knots Paedrin used to fasten it. She debated with herself on whether she should untie it, but decided that it would be best to leave it as a possible way to escape. She gripped the stone and pulled herself up to the buttress, which curved out, supporting the weight of the balcony. She paused for several moments, listening for any sound other than the crash and foam of the sea, the training yard, or anything else. The balcony faced away from the temple and so it would not give her a good view of the grounds below. Comfortable with her decision to wait, she then crept along the edge of the buttress and gripped the bottom edge of the balcony. Holding her weight with her hands, she peered up between the thin stone columns of the balcony rail. There were two stone urns, one on each side of a wooden door. The balcony was tiled with intricate stone chips of different colors. The balcony was small. The rail was wide enough to form a stone seat in a semicircle. There were no windows.
The roof was similar to what she had witnessed in Silvandom, steep and sloping. The crown of the roof had an iron cage. There was some sort of metal contrivance inside the cage and a large bracket of some kind. The wind whipped against her suddenly, causing her grip to strain. She pulled herself up on the balcony ledge and then waited, watching and listening. She was too high up to hear the training yard. The wind was all she could hear and it was as cold as winter.
Hettie stared at the door, examining the hinges and how it was made. She studied the mosaic of stone chips, admiring the pattern, but searching for cracks or grooves that would reveal the presence of a trap. The urns were slightly green with moss on one side. Her eyes went up to the strange cage at the top of the roof. It looked tall enough for a man to stand inside. The edge of the roof was low enough that she believed she could jump and reach it and pull herself up. But the stone shingles looked noisy and loose and she dared not risk it.
Now that she was at the top of the balcony, Hettie felt her mind come alive with all the years of Romani training. She assessed the shapes and structures, looking for anything out of place. She was carefully tuned to her feelings, seeking that telltale jolt of apprehension that would warn her of danger. As much as she hated the life, there was a certain degree of thrill in what she was doing. She caught herself smiling and then scowled. How long would her loyalties be divided? The mixture of feelings was difficult. She was grateful to have the skills she needed at this moment—skills that Paedrin lacked. Her plan was simple. Start with the highest tower, usually the place of power. Probe the edges to test its defenses. Then break past the defenses and search for the missing Sword of Winds. It was either on Cruw Reon’s body or it was likely hidden in the tower. Determining which was crucially important.
Hettie crept along the edge of the stone seat, avoiding the puzzle-like stones below. It did not feel threatening, but she did not wish to risk it. The door was thick and solid, likely sealed by a crossbar on the other side. Not a problem for her. As she crouched near the wall, she studied the outer rim of the tower, looking for an alternative way inside. She was surprised by the lack of windows. Cautiously, Hettie stepped on the edge of the balcony floor, careful to avoid the colored design. She waited, listening. Then, slowly, she began to stretch over the ground, sliding out like a snake so that it spread her weight evenly as she moved. That was usually a way to circumvent many troubles that might be in the way, but her instincts felt that the balcony was not rigged. When she was fully stretched out, her head near the door, she cocked her ear at the seam at the bottom and listened, waiting patiently. She waited a long while, letting the sounds of the wind wash over her, letting her senses reach out to the world around her. The air from the bottom of the door was stale but she detected the odors of ale and wine. Curious. She also felt heat coming from the seams, just enough to caress her skin. Thinking back, she realized she had seen a flue jutting from the rooftop on the other side—a tiny one. A sparrow might squeeze in it, not her.
Convinced there was no one beyond, she lightly touched the handle, a stout iron ring flecked with rust. Grasping it by the collar, she waited, breathing in slowly, her heart starting to race. She pulled at the ring. The door opened a fraction. She waited, shutting her eyes so that she could hear better with her ears. Another little tug on the door. It opened farther. There was no crossbar securing it. With her other hand, Hettie loosed her dagger from its sheath and brought it out, holding it underhanded. She pulled the door until it parted open, just a fraction. She kept herself pressed against the door itself so that she would not be seen. Again, she waited for soun
ds to reveal the presence of someone.
Nothing.
Taking a deep breath, Hettie jerked the door ajar, keeping herself back out of sight. She wanted it to seem like the wind may have gusted it loose. If someone were asleep inside, they would come to investigate. Nothing happened. Hettie peered around the edge of the door, into the room.
A small fireplace contained a crackling fire and there were glowing orbs set in the wall inside, revealing the room with light. The dancing flames first caught her gaze, as they appeared to be the only movement in the room. She waited for several moments, watching the flames whip as the hot air joined the swirling winds outside. Hettie stepped around the edge of the door, peering inside curiously. It was a small tower, a single room. It was, however, very full.
Hettie’s boot tapped against an empty wine bottle as she took her first wary step inside, knife balanced for throwing. There were bottles throughout the chamber, cluttering the floors and tabletops. A bed sprawled to her right, the blankets and sheets rumpled, but not occupied. There was a huge chest at the foot of the bed, nailed with leather and bound with iron straps. She shut the door behind her firmly, knowing it would open with a strong kick. The room was deliciously warm and had the yeasty smell of ale and the pungent smell of spoiled grapes. A second door was directly across on the far wall, of the same design as the one she had entered through. Two doors and no windows. A small coffer sat on the table, its lid open, spilling an assortment of gems and ducats of various mint—Havenrook, Cruithne, Wayland, but mostly Kenatos. There was a shaggy rug in the center of the room. She went to it quickly and lifted one of the corners, trying not to let the empty bottles rattle too much. She expected a trapdoor beneath, but there was none. A book lay on the table near the coffer. It was open to a page with ink scrawls marking names, races, ages, and recording injuries sustained. She flipped several pages, seeing the ledgers full. Many names were crossed out. The swipe of the ink looked ominous. A half-empty goblet sat by the tome, a small circle of ale froth showing its remaining contents. There was a small chair by the desk.
By the bed, on the far side, was a huge bracket full of swords. She raced to it immediately, counting at least seven. A solitary brace showed one was missing. She studied the remaining blades and scabbards, seeing various fashions of blades. All had gems mounted to the pommels and she could feel the sense of power radiating from them. Seven blades. One was missing. She swore under her breath. However, if the empty brace was where the Sword of Winds was normally kept, it would be an asset to know that now. She studied all seven, noting the make and length of each. She memorized the order and the details.
Across the wall on the other side of the tower, Hettie noticed a hanging cabinet. There was a lock on it. It was too small for a sword, but the lock caught her attention immediately. She approached it, studying the curve of the wood and noticed it was sturdy and solid. The lock, however, was no match for her skills. With a wire and a prod, she tripped it open and unfastened the cabinet latch. She expected to find bottles of wine or ale, but instead, a cold creeping fear clutched her stomach. There were vials of poison inside. Each had a label, scrawled with a delicate hand. She stared at one of them, tucked away in the back.
Monkshood.
Just seeing the words made her stomach clench with dread. The heat of the room became suddenly oppressive. Bile rose in her throat.
Next to it, almost cradling it, lay a small leather pouch. She stared at the pouch, her mind quickening. She snatched it from the cabinet and untied the drawstrings. It was a tiny pouch. There was a single, decaying leaf inside. The leaf was so old, it seemed to be collapsing into dust. Her memories stirred. As a child, Hettie had watched the effects of one of her sisters poisoned with monkshood. Just before the girl had died, they had given her a cup of tea to drink and the symptoms finally vanished. A strange tea. Hettie had always wondered what the tea was made from. She never knew, because the Romani men guarded the cure steadfastly.
Hettie took the small pouch and delicately slid it into her pocket. A surging thrill went through her body. And an idea sprouted inside her mind. It came with sharpness and clarity. The room reminded her of Havenrook. Discarded bottles of ale and wine. Rumpled careworn sheets. Ledgers and coins. Even the lights in the room, except for the fire, had the markings of enchantment. She stared at one of the glowing spheres, reminded of the lights of Kenatos.
A muffled noise caught her attention, striking her with dread and alertness. It was a shout from far away. Or a scream. Hettie raced to the other door, the one facing the courtyard. She tugged it open a crack, and heard the sounds rising up from below. The mist had cleared slightly and she saw bodies sprawled down in the training yard. A Vaettir was floating up, thrashing, attacked on all sides. It was Paedrin. Her heart lurched with dread. He was attacking as a drunken man, trying to fight foes as if he could not see them. As if he were blind.
There was no way down. No stairwell or ladder waited at the crest of the balcony. Only a Vaettir could enter or exit the balcony. Only a Vaettir. A Romani Vaettir with monkshood. Hettie’s eyes widened with shock and a spasm of dread went through her. No—it’s couldn’t be.
Hugging the edge of the door, Hettie watched helplessly as Paedrin was brought down. She shuddered, seeing the savagery with which they treated him after he had collapsed. His limp body was dragged over to a giant stone pillar at the edge of the training yard, his wrists bound behind him and around the pillar with shackles. He was unconscious, head lolling against the cold stone as the others left him there, a vanquished foe. Hettie groaned inside, furious that she had been too slow. But what could she have done? There was no way down unless—she saw the mane of black hair as another Vaettir below took flight, heading up like a gust of breeze toward the tower where she crouched.
She would have recognized Kiranrao anywhere.
“War is a grisly necessity betimes. The Waylander army has secured the borders of the ruined forests of Havenrook. The Cruithne march down from the mountains in force. Hammer meets anvil. The iron of the Preachán is about to be shaped into a new future. The Romani are scattering like leaves in the wind.”
—Possidius Adeodat, Archivist of Kenatos
The door squealed as it was thrust open. Hettie watched the boots as they entered. She cowered under the huge bed, hidden in the shadows and near the rumpled blankets. She willed herself to be small and silent, shrinking deep within herself, doing her best to calm her thoughts, afraid that even the smallest spark of imagination would alert him to her presence. His shadow spread across the floor as he stepped in front of the fire, chafing himself vigorously. Then turning, he marched over to the table and reached for the ale cup, downing it in a single swallow. Her guess had been correct and a surge of relief went through her.
“Who’s there?” he barked suddenly, his voice dark and menacing.
She went cold, unable to move. Cold sweat trickled across her body.
He took a few steps into the room, muttering something under his breath. The cup suddenly flew into the wall, banging with a loud sound. It nearly made her cry out, but she did not. She saw the scuff marks on his boots. Normally they were quite polished. That was strange.
“Where is it?” he muttered darkly, swinging back to the desk.
She heard the cork pop free of another bottle and this one he held by the neck, taking a loud slurping draw from it. He slammed the bottle on the table, shoving the cask and scattering coins. Hettie tried to get a better look at him but decided it was not worth the risk of making noise. She heard him sigh deeply. He stood still a moment, breathing deeply. Then a glow began to illuminate the room, coming from his presence.
“I must speak with the Arch-Rike,” Kiranrao said in a low voice. “I have a report.”
He waited in silence, pausing occasionally to sip from the bottle. There was no answer, but he stood still. He cursed under his breath.
After an interminable wait that caused the hairs on the back of Hettie’s neck to raise, a voice ans
wered. “What is it?”
“You took your time,” Kiranrao snarled.
“I was in a war council,” came the terse reply. “What has happened?”
“I caught the Bhikhu.”
“Paedrin?”
“Yes. Paedrin. He’s as you described him. I’ve got him chained down in the training yard. I blinded him with the sword.”
“What about the Cruithne?”
“He was found this morning, guarding a little skiff at the base. I doubt he will be able to climb this high. Leaving him be for now. He’s a big brute, but mine can take him. Not a concern.”
“Kill him. He’s no use to me. What about the girl?”
“No sign of her.”
“What?”
Hettie smirked. She was as still as a cat. Kiranrao swore softly again, his breath starting to quicken.
“No sign of her yet.”
“She’s the most dangerous of the three. Probably skulking nearby. Search for her. I’m sending over one of my Rikes to bring rings for Paedrin and Hettie. Then you can commence their Kishion training. Hopefully one of them will survive it.”
A snort followed. “Who is your man? What is his name?”
“Aeldwyn,” the Arch-Rike replied. “He will not stay long.”
“When can I leave this cursed place?” Kiranrao’s voice was almost begging. “You promised me—”
“I know very well what we agreed to. You are doing your part. Let me do mine.”
