The Man In The Wind
By: Sorenna Wise
Copyright © 2013
Blue Ribbon Books
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
For questions and comments about this book, please contact us at [email protected]
Chapter 1
Under the watchful eye of an almost-full moon, the frozen plains of Volikar glittered as though they were covered in diamonds. From her position at the base of the castle’s western wall, the cat-thief Iris surveyed her barren surroundings. A trail of small, nimble footprints led out from the drift in which she stood knee-deep, but snow was still falling in big, lacy flakes. It would all be covered over in the morning.
And by then, she’d be long gone.
The wall was made of ancient stone blocks, each one rough and full of pockmarks where the elements had worn it down. Smiling, the girl slipped her hands into a pair of metal braces that were hanging at her waist. They lined her slender hands with spikes. When she swung, her palms stuck firmly in the uneven surface of the weather-softened stone. Perfect.
She had planned it so the castle itself would shield her from the probing rays of the moon. As it was, her precautions turned out to be needless. Not a soul was present to see the thief’s quick shadow pulling itself up toward a high, narrow window. Below, the snowdrifts gleamed blue in the dark.
Although she was only of medium stature, Iris Deleone was astoundingly strong. She wore no spikes on her boots, relying only on the powerful muscles of her arms and shoulders to propel her upward. She climbed like a lioness stalking upon the ground, green-grey eyes fixed intently upon the sill that was her target. Her body didn’t seem to register the cold; in the weeks she had spent casing the fortress, she’d become inured to the inhospitable climate. At the moment, exertion was enough to keep her warm. There was no sound except the whistle of the wind and the thin crunch of her crampons biting into iced-over stone. She did not look down.
As soon as she hooked her arms over the outside window ledge, Iris paused to rest, hanging nonchalantly, fifty feet above the ground. The air burned in her lungs, and it wasn’t long before she pulled herself deftly onto the perch. It would only take a few minutes for the frigidity to settle into her bones, and if that happened, she’d be at a severe disadvantage. Crouching beside the casement with one hand against the glass, she slipped the other from its brace and withdrew a small felted mallet from a pouch on her belt.
For a moment, she turned the instrument over in her hands. It wasn’t the most elegant method she’d ever employed, but it was certainly the simplest, and the weather conditions on Volikar created optimal circumstances for its use. Against the howling wind, the sound of the padded hammer would be nothing more than a wind chime. Still, she thought, I’d better not overdo it. With careful grace, she cocked her arm back and swung, at a relatively low speed. But it was enough. There was a dull crunch, followed by a shower of bright splinters into the gloom of the chamber beyond. Iris picked shards daintily from the edges of the hole, and then she put her hand through, feeling for the latch on the other side. A smile spread across her rapidly numbing features as it clicked open.
“Hallelujah,” she whispered. The left panel swung out. She eased herself down over the sill, mindful of the glass on the floor. Standing in the shadows, she put her tool away and glanced at her surroundings; only a few boxes, an old chair, and a dilapidated bed frame occupied the space. The girl crossed softly to the barred wooden door, listening.
Nothing. Once again, her entry had gone off without a hitch. Not that she hadn’t specifically prepared for perfection, but it still made her proud. She knew from her notes that the king’s rooms were on the direct opposite end of the complex, and that there was no conceivable way he could have been awoken. It was the servants she had to worry about, and so she remained motionless behind the door for a good long time, just in case. Assured by the unbroken quiet, she eased the heavy slab open onto a hall lit with flickering torches. As she left the tower room behind, she noted with some amusement that the walls were barren, almost primitive. Let it be known that Serberos, King of Volikar, wastes no time on interior decorating.
The dim torches made the space feel close and cold, like a tomb. Although Iris had perfected the silent step of the criminal, it seemed like she could hear herself for miles. She walked slower. The corridor was full of winding twists and turns, so that she had to sidle deliberately around every corner. It was rather tedious, but there was no room to complain—she’d known the risks.
And she knew exactly where she had to go.
Iris had learned of the treasure room through her father, an exceedingly rich auctioneer who sometimes acquired his pieces through less orthodox methods. He had just happened to know that several rare antiques were kept within that room, and he’d come to her to enlist her services.
“Just imagine the rewards if some of those items were to fall into our possession,” he’d said, a sparkle in his eye. “Just imagine.”
That was a month ago, and now she was creeping through the dank passages of Serberos’ castle, the knife edge of the wind on her face replaced by a chill, almost subterranean mist. Every so often, she’d wipe it off her brow and frown. Thanks, Daddy.
The hall was long and snakelike, its arched ceiling lost in the murky shadows. If Iris paused, she could sometimes hear things scurrying along in the bands of darkness between the frail pools of torchlight. Clearly, Serberos didn’t care too much for housekeeping. Or maybe his servants were forbidden access to this part of the castle. Her vivid imagination jumped with the possibilities, but she quelled the fantastic thoughts immediately. There was no time for speculation. She was here to do business. She smiled to herself. In a manner of speaking.
It was just as well. No amount of wondering could have prepared her for what she would find.
As she turned yet another corner, the thief was relieved to see the end of the path in front of her, marked by a musty-looking stairwell. She stopped, cocked her head, and then, hearing nothing, jogged lightly the rest of the way. The flight of stairs was unkempt, laced with cobwebs. She furrowed her brow. Was there no cleaning at all around this place? And why hadn’t she heard anything? She wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, but never before had she experienced a silence this extreme. All the stories she had heard of Serberos described him as cantankerous and paranoid, deathly afraid of individuals just like her who might break in and take away his gold. So why hadn’t she run into any security?
The wheels in her mind began to turn, well-oiled by the thick stillness. First the abandoned chamber, then the labyrinthine walkways, and now there were clear signs of abandonment. As she tried to discern what all the evidence could mean, her keen eyes lit upon a detail so crucial she could hardly believe she’d almost missed it.
In the layer of dust upon the steps, there were the light imprints of feet, pointing toward her own. She looked over her shoulder. There wasn’t enough accumulation on the floor beyond the staircase for the trail to continue, but she saw a tiny gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through at the intersection of the walls, where the corner should have been. Her brows lowered. Is that what he’s hiding?
A dilemma overtook her. She knew from her father’s intel that the treasury was all the way at the bottom of the building, ensconced in an underground vault. But that, at least in her social circle, was common knowledge. No one seemed to have any inf
ormation about this new area; she couldn’t even recall seeing it on any of the maps she’d so thoroughly committed to memory. She glanced down the stairs, but only briefly. Her desire for adventure was too great. Daddy will forgive me, she thought, as she turned and walked toward the barely noticeable crevice. Slender as she was, it was easy for her to slip through.
The tiny gangway was too narrow for torches to be safely employed, and so Iris was forced to rely on the overspill from the main corridor to light her way. She kept her back to the wall, one hand out in front of her in case she should run into anything undesirable—not that she’d be able to make a quick getaway in any case. But her curiosity had bloomed into something that was almost beyond her control. She moved forward as if in a trance, until finally her fingers brushed something that felt worn and rough. Blinking, she brought her face close to the object and found it to be an old wooden door. Her hand automatically felt for the knob.
It was locked. Of course. No great obstacle for a master thief, however. She put her hand inside her coat and withdrew a booklet of silver lock picks, of which she selected one, and set to work on the dingy padlock clamped through the mechanism. It was slightly more difficult in such low light, but her nimble fingers were well-practiced. The hasp sprung free with a small, yet infinitely satisfying click. One brisk turn of the now-unrestricted handle, and she was in.
A watery stream of moonlight poured onto the bare floor from a window higher than the one she’d broken, and about the size of a postcard. Even though the space was small, the illumination didn’t quite reach into all the corners. If she looked hard, she could make out the edge of a shapeless pallet on the floor. She took a step forward. Then, she swore her heart stopped, just for a moment.
Someone was sitting on the mattress. As she stared in mute horror, he—his gender betrayed by the broad, masculine shoulders—opened his eyes, and the piercing blue stare cut straight through the gloom. She understood that it was far too late to back out now. But as her image registered, he seemed more confused than anything. She waited for him to say something. He didn’t.
Iris bought herself some time by looking around the slovenly little room. Like the rest of what she had seen so far, it was poorly maintained. She couldn’t bring herself to believe that someone, much less a person of his apparent size and stature, inhabited the area, but that’s certainly what he seemed to be doing. After a few moments of scrutiny, acting as if she were a health inspector who’d just happened to stop by in the dead of night, she returned her gaze to him. “Do you live here?”
Was it a stupid question? Yes, immeasurably so. Did she have anything else to say? Absolutely not. She hoped the query, inane as it was, would keep him occupied long enough for her to think of something else. She was disappointed.
Instantly, the man adopted an expression that was half wry amusement, half persistent confusion. She watched him rise from the shabby bed, noting with some displeasure how tall he was—much taller than her. He stepped forward, into the pathetic spot of light, and the next thing she noticed was the extreme pallor of his complexion. He was almost too pale. In contrast with his long, disheveled hair, which was so black it looked blue, he seemed like a corpse come to life. And yet, there were no bags underneath his eyes, no strange blemishes or collections of blood beneath the skin. If he had counted among the dead, he was perfectly preserved.
The effect was more unnerving than Iris could have explained. She fought the urge to step back, because despite his height and his air of reanimation, he wasn’t moving to threaten her. Instead, he spoke three words into the void between them. His voice was soft, but it carried.
“Who are you?” The fact that the prisoner—for it was clear now that he was, in fact, captive—was the one asking the sensible questions did not go unnoticed by Iris Deleone. She chewed her lip thoughtfully.
“Shouldn’t I be asking you the same?” The stranger gave her the look of one who was trying to decide whether or not she was serious. She noticed that his face held a peculiar ageless handsomeness that was almost weirder than the rest of him.
“I was here first.” The juvenile simplicity of his answer threw her off. She narrowed her eyes.
“Fine.” She hesitated. Was there anything she could tell him that wouldn’t make her look bad? Briefly, she considered the possibilities. Oh, I was just lost in the tundra and happened to find my way here. Actually, I’m a distant half-cousin of the king. Twice removed. You wouldn’t know me from pictures.
It was ridiculous. In fact, the whole thing was. But she had gotten herself in far too deep. She sensed that he knew this as well. And as he was obviously being contained in this awful shelter, she doubted he was on very pleasant terms with the king.
What did she have to lose, really? Only…everything. She sucked in her breath and told the truth. There was just something about him that inspired honesty. Whether it was the sharp ultramarine eyes or that uncomfortably chiseled jawline, she couldn’t say.
“I came to steal stuff from Serberos,” she said plainly. At that, the man’s formerly impassive face changed, his eyebrow quirking upward. “But then I saw footprints on the stairs, and I followed them to that door.” She shrugged. “I’m a thief. Are you happy now?” There was no reply. The girl folded her arms. “I’ve told you my story, so tell me yours.” She was not happy about the way in which he had so deftly backed her into a corner, although she had to admit she’d made it pretty easy for him. He looked away from her, up toward the window.
“I don’t really remember,” he said. Somehow, the answer didn’t surprise her. Fixing her eyes upon him to show she wasn’t about to back down, she tried another tack.
“Have you got a name?” His eyes returned to hers.
“It’s Rai.” She already knew that was all she was going to get.
“I’m Iris.” She tapped her lock pick against her lower lip. “As long as I’m here, I might as well ask: Do you know anything about the treasure room?”
“That’s where you’re headed?” He paused. “You won’t get in.” The finality with which he gave his decree left Iris mildly insulted.
“They all say that,” she said. “I’m sure it’s been said about the castle, too. And yet, here I am.” Again, an impression of passive incredulity slid across his features.
“I should know,” he added. “I’m the one who worked the magic that protects it.” That stopped her. She hadn’t bargained on any magic.
“What?” She stared hard at him. It wasn’t part of the plan, but new challenges always piqued her interest. “What kind of magic?”
“It is…forbidden.” Rai spoke as though he had to draw the word unwillingly from his own mouth. She frowned. Apparently he had been strictly instructed never to discuss the nature of the enchantment with anyone…which was why she knew she had to find out. She inched toward him.
“And what does that mean?” He had one pale eye on her, watching, wary, like a hunted animal.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” He must really have beaten that secret into you, the girl thought, not without pity. The second she came within arm’s reach, she put her fingers out and touched his arm, gently. He actually flinched. An odd compassion struck up in her heart. For all his stony silence and cold gaze, Rai was afraid of her. He was probably afraid of everyone.
“Do they hurt you?” she asked. Her voice was considerably softer, but Rai’s jaw tightened as soon as the question left her lips, and she knew the answer would be yes.
“Not anymore. They’re too cowardly.” She looked straight into his face.
“Are you trying to intimidate me?” He blinked. “Because it’s not working. I’ve dealt with worse than you.” The shift in her demeanor surprised him. He glanced down at her hand on his arm. How long had it been since someone had touched him so willingly?
“It’s death magic,” he told her. He was deeply impressed by her brazen courage, the way she spoke to him as if they both belonged in that cramped tower cell. How she had managed to get t
here was of no concern to him; he barely ever saw anything beyond the castle walls, and his memory of the outside world was blurred and ever fading. He was so inured to the idea of lifelong solitary confinement that had he realized she would ultimately save him, he never would have believed. But even then, as he repaid honesty with honesty, his salvation was being born as a notion in the far corner of Iris’ mind. “The area around those chambers is full of skeletons. If you try to enter, they will arise and kill you.” Before she could say anything, he continued. “There is nothing you can do. You can’t harm a thing if it’s already dead.”
“You did that?” she asked. “That’s what you do?” He nodded slowly, expecting the familiar look of revulsion that always came with the understanding of his power.
“That and other things.” He regarded her searchingly, waiting for the moment in which she’d recoil from him.
It never came. In lieu of disgust, her eyes were shaded with something like sadness. The heavy truth had just dawned on her. “So that’s how it is,” she said quietly. “The legends aren’t about Serberos at all. They’re about you.”
Chapter 2
When Iris was a child, Serberos Akaryas had figured prominently in the sort of bedtime stories that were told by parents in hopes of scaring good behavior from their children. Without fail, the grizzled old king played the villain, and as his bitter life stretched longer, the tall, grim tales about him seemed to inch closer and closer to the truth. As was often the case with childhood reprobates, he was popular among the boys, who embellished and retold the stories with gleeful abandon. There was occasionally some debate over which was the best, but as far as sheer grisliness went, only one stood out enough to claim the prize.
No one knew for sure exactly where the legend of Volikar’s “dead army” had come from, but by the time Iris was in school, it was a fixture of folklore across countries. War had long ago succumbed to a peace that was so far stable, if not guaranteed, and so all accounts of the hellish militia were second and third-hand, eavesdropped from a stranger, or told by a friend of a friend. Many, especially the mothers, discounted these reports entirely. “Just monster stories,” they would say, speaking in the well-worn platitudes of the sheltered. “Boys will be boys.” Still, the rumors persisted.
The Man In The Wind Page 1
