Blade and Soul: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 2)

by C. M. Estopare

  Severin sneered, “And you'd waste time finding this thing's loved ones? You'd search while it returns—killing more innocents. Destroying Safrana while you search and coddle and plead?” he spat upon the floor, “I am done watching you two beg for this thing's life! Non-humans—Ludovic, I've told you—,”

  Ludovic silenced him with a glance.

  But looked at the table. Sighed, “Severin's right. No more death. We need countermeasures while we search for this thing's loved ones. Vidonia, is there a way you could detain this creature using alchemy?”

  “Yes.” Vidonia nodded, bringing her fingertips away from her lips, “But I would require rare ingredients...”

  “Kiran, could your people lend a hand?”

  “Anything you need, Ludovic.”

  “And, Marceline,” Ludovic sighed once more, his eyes pleading as he spoke, “I'll send more recruits your way...proving you accept your appointment.”

  Marceline cocked her head, “And so it was you spreading rumors about me taking on apprentices.”

  “Rumors?” Ludovic asked, his eyebrow rising, “I know nothing of...”

  Marceline eyed him. Watched confusion twist up his features and brought her gaze to Kiran's.

  “Gossiping isn't one of my strong suits.” the elf said, holding up his palms.

  Could she trust him?

  Then who spread the rumors?

  She pursed her lips.

  Did it matter, now?

  Severin and Vidonia exchanged glances. Severin stood tall. Took in breath sharply.

  “I haven't had a say in this!” Severin said, slamming a fist on the table, “I vote to send her home!”

  Ludovic slid him an exhausted glare, “All right people. Let's have a vote.”

  All three agreed against Severin's nay. Begrudgingly, he piped down. Crossed his arms and took a step away from the table.

  “Then it's decided.” Ludovic said, turning to Marceline, “Will you accept?”

  “You will use my people for infiltration?”

  Vidonia cleared her throat, “We will use them for whatever the Spears may need.”

  Marceline shook her head, “I only have two and they are not ready.”

  “We will give you twenty days. We only ask for three infiltrators.”

  Marceline widened her eyes.

  Twenty days?

  I spent years at the Bann. Three excruciating years!

  There is simply no way...

  “Non.” she said, calming her expression, “There is no way.”

  “Yes, there is.” Ludovic said, his jaw set, “It's possible, Marceline. We need these people. Teach them what you can, then send them to work.”

  “We must make a preemptive strike before that highscale returns, spymaster. If we do not, hundreds—no, thousands—will die.”

  THE MEETING DRONED on as Vidonia filled Ludovic in on everything he had missed while attempting to save the vineyard. Once the council was cut, Marceline lingered, thinking through the ultimatum that had been set before her.

  Ludovic placed a reassuring hand on Marceline's shoulder, “I promise you've made the right choice, Marceline. You'll do well—I know you will.”

  Vidonia ushered him out, still talking. It was a one-sided conversation that burned Marceline's ear.

  Before she knew it, she was quite alone. Save for Severin.

  He approached her as she stood at a towering window, looking down the mountain's side.

  “Know about the last agent that took this post?”

  His voice was a rough hiss. One that made Marceline's jaw set hard.

  She shook her head.

  “He died, you know. Died a traitor to his own kind.” Severin came closer. Towered over her like the window. She waited for the brush of his hot breath, but felt nothing. He approached her from the side, giving her space to flee. Encouraging her to.

  She wouldn't.

  One should never run from a bully.

  Nor a challenge.

  She waited. Muscles stiffening. Relaxing.

  “Listen, agent, you do anything—anything at all—to jeopardize Ludovic's life—yours will be forfeit. And this time, I won't use an ax to cleave your head from your neck.”

  She let silence prevail. Let it whirl around them like the whipping wind outside.

  “It was you who murdered the Spear's last agent?”

  “Justly.” he snapped. Folded his arms. Would say no more.

  He took his leave. Left Marceline standing there. Wondering.

  How did their last spymaster betray them?

  MARCELINE COUNTED THE days with renewed vigor. Made up lesson plans. Trained like tomorrow would be their last.

  More eager trainees came. More people ready to become recruits. Agents.

  Her agents.

  It inspired Marceline. Made her unable to sleep and jumpy—overly excited to get to the next activity. The next phase of training that would strengthen her agents. That would make damn sure they wouldn't die in Safrana's western citadel, the great land of intrigues.

  Five new women found her. New recruits. They took Adelaide's place, sleeping outside her door. Sleeping in three-hour intervals. Taking watch outside. Waking Marceline if more trainees came, people eager to help. People eager to lay down their lives for a cause.

  And Marceline would help them too. Help them regret ever coming to her.

  But they would emerge stronger for it. Ready to face their fears and protect what they love.

  She made them ground fight in the middle of the week. Allowed Adelaide and Clara to pick up weapons while the junior of them went at it hand-to-hand.

  Adelaide became fierce. Clara, more reserved. Watchful.

  They became Agents.

  And on the day that Marceline allowed them to graduate, to retake their names and take on new titles, she cried.

  It was like setting a baby bird free from the nest.

  “Know this,” she told them as she brought them both into a prolonged hug, “if you die out there, I will hunt you down in the afterlife and murder you again.”

  The women shared a laugh. One long and high pitched. Much unlike Marceline.

  She allowed Adelaide and Clara to train newcomers—at least in the basics. Combat conditioning, ground fighting—they knew what they were doing. But when it came to weapons, Marceline put her new recruits to the test herself.

  Ten days passed. To Ludovic, Marceline named Adelaide and Clara as their first two infiltrators.

  “We'll need them to find a way into the western citadel. You don't cross the great bridge without a pass.” Ludovic told her during a council meeting.

  “It isn't hard to create a counterfeit one.” Vidonia murmured, yawned. Bored, “They'll get their passes. That will be the least of your worries, Soliel.”

  “Will they need a detail?” Severin asked Marceline.

  “Non.” Marceline replied, “Agents never require help.”

  And she continued to train newcomers. Breaking strong wills. Spirits. Building them back up—stronger, faster, more willing to lie and manipulate.

  She built them up as true agents. Men and women willing to use their charms out in the open, and stilettos in private. Quickly, she found her third infiltrator. A man with a knack for throwing stars. He seemed foreign, as if he were from somewhere across the Landbridge.

  He called himself Talon, and would explain no more about himself. Later on, he told Marceline that he was an orphan and knew nothing else, “Rather, I know I don't belong. I'm not Safranian...Danaen...”

  Ludovic sat in on their training some days, watching with unconcealed awe. He told the young man, “You're a Spear, son. Here, you belong.” and playfully patted his head.

  “He's a recruit,” Marceline snapped, “a grateful recruit.”

  And Talon stood at a crisp attention. Saluted the Soliel and went back to weapons training. Today, Kiran taught them how to use bows.

  “Is he your third?” Ludovic whispered, his arms crossed over h
is chest, “I hope so. I like him.”

  Marceline shrugged, “I plan to give him a chance.”

  Several days later, when Marceline allowed him to graduate her training, she spat on her palm. The two clasped hands in the courtyard and he took her knuckles. Kissed them, “You have been a harsh taskmaster.” he told her, a bright smile on his young, tan, face.

  Marceline giggled, tears freely flowing from her eyes, “Good, then.” she told him, touching his cheek, “The harsher the training, the easier the battle.”

  “Right, ma'am.”

  She had her team. It took seventeen days, but she had her team.

  And she still had recruits to train. Men and women to mold.

  But still—she had her team.

  And it was a pure miracle.

  FROM HER PERCH HIGH atop the alchemist's tower, Marceline watched the bridge. Eyed the blue mountains surrounding the bone white fortress.

  Marceline imagined she was a bird. An eagle, strong and free.

  She watched Adelaide and Clara lead a band of ten recruits over the bridge in their morning run. They'd cross it, get to the courtyard and run the stretch of its green-gray cobbles.

  Marceline could hardly believe how far those girls had come—how far she had come.

  From a failed agent to a spymaster.

  She had come far. Climbed high.

  Don't look down, she told herself. Ignoring the urge to think about Reine and Lucius, Gerard and the others, don't look down. Continue looking up.

  She eyed the fortress's entrance. Watched a trio of heavily cloaked men approach the mountain's frost strewn path. They climbed, met Fort Endure's portcullis and called up to the guards. Naming themselves.

  Marceline couldn't make out a thing.

  The portcullis rose. The men entering as metal sang.

  A guardsman led them to the fortress's main building. They followed, heads down. Trailing cowls covering their faces.

  One looked at her. Felt her eyes.

  For a moment, Marceline blanched. Swore her heart stopped.

  For a moment, she wanted to run.

  I will not.

  She stood there. Kneeled. Watched them disappear into the main building.

  Her recruits piled inside of the courtyard. Adelaide's voice rang out in a punishing screech. Someone must have fallen out.

  The girl had become quite bitter. Angry. Wicked.

  Though Marceline had been a harsh taskmaster, and she expected her agents to be the same, Adelaide treated the recruits with obvious malice. Physically disciplining them because she wanted to harm someone weaker.

  Marceline believed that the woman’s assignment was probably getting to her head.

  Adelaide was afraid of leaving the fortress, that much Marceline knew. But did Adelaide? Would the woman even admit it to herself?

  A screech rang out. It froze Marceline's blood. She stood.

  She needs to lay off.

  Behind her, a door opened. One of Vidonia's servants presented himself, “A visitor awaits you in your study, mademoiselle.” he whispered, the man soft-spoken and gentle, “Earnest, he calls himself.” the servant sighed, “He would not give his true name.”

  “Merci, Garen.” of course he wouldn't.

  Earnest.

  It was code.

  She followed the servant down. Jumped from the last rung of a wooden ladder onto the floorboards. Took the steps by twos to the tower's second floor and sauntered down the hallway. Passed Vidonia's lab, saw the woman hunched. Saw vials of blue liquid bubbling about. She went farther. Two doors down.

  Marceline entered her study.

  “So,” she murmured, “you've come.”

  The cloaked man stood with his back to her, admiring the view from her single window. His eyes on the blue mountains.

  He made no move to respond, as Masters often do.

  Still, it irked her.

  Marceline slammed the door behind herself.

  He did nothing. Continued ignoring her.

  “Who told you that I failed, huh? Lucius?” she stepped forward. Clenched her shaking hands into fists, “My charge is dead—,”

  “No,” the Master replied, a sidelong glare sliding over his shoulder, “she is not.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  Marceline

  Marceline bit her lip. Chewed at it.

  Lavender blood...merde...lavender blood...

  How could I have been so foolish?

  She stood facing the window. Standing in the Master's footprints. His shadow lingered, like the scent of burnt wood. His words clouded her vision. As did the truth of things.

  The truth of Reine.

  Marceline snapped her eyes shut.

  Behind her, the door to her study wheezed open.

  She ignored it. Worried her lip more. Blinked her eyes open and stared out at the panoramic view of blue mountains.

  Marceline had never been that close to a Master. The man stunk of death and decay. His fumes filled up the room. Threatened to choke her.

  She never wanted to be so near to a creature of death ever again.

  Talon breathed at her doorstep, his breath calming. Hitching.

  Marceline latched onto it.

  “Sit.” she commanded.

  Floorboards creaked. A chair sang, moving quickly.

  He sat with a sigh.

  Marceline played with her bottom lip. Listened.

  “Take the etching you see on my desk.”

  Talon breathed. Remained silent.

  She smiled—this is exactly why I chose you.

  Adelaide has grown too wild. Too wicked.

  Clara is outspoken—she'd question.

  But you...

  She heard parchment crumble.

  “Memorize the face.”

  Marceline could not turn for fear that he'd see her worry. See that, she too was only human. Instead, she concentrated on the mountains. Fought to still her pounding heart.

  “This is a sub-sect of your current mission, Talon.” her fingers moved on their own. She clasped them. Forced her hands behind her back, “Find her. See her—do nothing—and report back.”

  He listened. Breathed. Swallowed at the heavy silence and spoke up, “If I do not see her?”

  Marceline nibbled at her lip once more.

  She had no words. None.

  “You will.” You must.

  Or the Master will return—seeking blood money.

  At that thought, she shivered.

  “You're dismissed.”

  And he rushed to stand, the chair scraping across the floorboards violently.

  She heard her door open. Close.

  Marceline sighed heavily after Talon left. Carelessly, she let her forehead droop. It touched glass, the frost painted window. She closed her eyes and breathed. Let everything go, let it all melt away.

  I will fix everything—and no one will be the wiser. It is my job—my duty.

  How could she still be alive?

  I should have killed him. Done away with him or let him have his way with me. Now everything—everything is at stake.

  Her door opened with a slam.

  Marceline's breath hitched in her throat.

  “I never see you at the dining hall! It's like you don't even eat!”

  The chair at her desk moaned. Porcelain plates full of food clanked to the face of her desk.

  Marceline turned. Clutched her heart, “Merde...” Ludovic.

  He looked at her expectantly. Grinned from ear to ear. Moved his gaze over his shoulder and stared toward the door. Listened to Talon's slow footfalls, “Oh...” he murmured, turning to face her, “...did I...interrupt something...?”

  Marceline blanched. Pressed her back against the window, “N-non!” she cringed at his snort, “I've...assigned Talon as troupe leader for the infiltration group. I was giving him further...” she rolled her eyes, “...merde, are you even listening?”

  “I'm hearing a poorly thought out excuse.” he joked, crossing his arms, “
But I know Marceline 'holier-than-thou' would never shag her own subordinate.”

  She sat heavily, glaring at him from across her desk, “Just—,” she shook her head, “—just shut up and eat.”

  At that, he outright guffawed.

  But still ate. Shoveling boiled chicken and bright green peas into his mouth by the spoonful.

  Marceline picked at her own plate. Ripping off chicken skin, stabbing at the browned meat beneath.

  She looked up. Grimaced at the sight of Ludovic stuffing himself like a starved boy during a feast night.

  “Merci.” she murmured, bowing her head slightly before digging in as well.

  They ate quietly. Light drizzle knocked at her small square window. Tap, tap, tapping.

  Ludovic finished up well before her.

  “Don't you enjoy it? The peace I mean,” he leaned back. Pressed his foot against the lip of her desk, “the quiet before everything goes wrong.”

  She brought her spoon down, “Ye of little faith.” she smiled.

  “Ah, so she does have a sense of humor.”

  “A small sense.”

  He chuckled at that.

  Quickly, his face became dark. Stormy as he brought his mind back, “Tomorrow evening your group goes out in search of the highscale's family...”

  “Has Vidonia pinpointed...?”

  Ludovic shook his head of dark hair, “Whoever is its kin...she swears they must be among the high noble families...”

  “The Coutures...the Savatiers...”

  “There's a third one in there but I cannot pronounce it.”

  Marceline cocked her head, “I know nothing of a third.”

  “Victoire?”

  “Victor?” the duchess's family? “Impossible. That line died out.”

  “Eh...” he shrugged. Remained silent.

  Marceline pushed her plate away. Listened to the rain. The wind, “There's nothing to worry about.”

  “Things won't go as planned.”

  “When do they ever? Trust your people, Ludovic.”

  He looked at her pointedly. Scrunched up his brow, “Do you trust me?”

  It was a question Marceline did not want to answer, “You haven't given me cause not to.”

  “But do you?”

  She pursed her lips. Nodded silently.

  “Then come with me. I've got something to show you.”