Fynn sat up and swung his feet off the couch. “Dreadfully alone,” he agreed in the same tongue, “and unbearably sad.”
She settled softly onto the couch beside him. Her breasts were like pale fruit pressed against the bodice of her violet gown. “Why are you sad, my lord?”
Fynn sighed despondently. “My wife has left me for a minstrel. The tramp.” He looked appealingly at her. “You would never leave me, would you? You seem the faithful type.”
“I am most faithful,” she whispered, leaning her cleavage toward him for his viewing pleasure, “and very, very eager to please. But alas,” she said, pulling away just as Fynn was starting to salivate, “I, too, am sad.”
“Why are you sad, my lovely?”
“It is trouble with my lover. He refuses to let me take another.”
“Scandalous!” Fynn clucked.
She furrowed her delicate brows as she gazed at him. “I dare not think…you just seemed so noble, I thought…perhaps…”
Fynn jumped from his couch and even set down his wine. “Where is the scoundrel? Take me to him and I will free you from his treacherous bonds!”
She threw her arms about Fynn’s neck. “Oh, my lord!” she cried gratefully as she pressed her breasts against his chest. She added breathlessly in his ear, “Whatever can I do to repay you?”
Fynn placed both hands on her hips and looked her over generously. “I’m sure we’ll think of something. Now…where is this walking dead man?”
“This way, my liberator…my hero,” she murmured.
Fynn followed her down a hallway and up two flights of stairs. She reached a door and stood beside it, catching her finger worriedly between her teeth. Fynn grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close, eliciting a gasp and a little laugh. “A kiss for luck?”
She planted a long kiss upon his mouth, sweet with promise.
Fynn released her, squared his shoulders, drew his sword, and kicked in the door, which crashed resoundingly against the wall. He rushed into the room, sword upraised, and—
The door slammed behind him.
Across the room waited not a man, but a woman of indefinite age. She stood with her back to Fynn, dressed also in a violet gown but with a matching cloak trimmed in silver fox. Her dark hair was swept up and held with jeweled combs, and as she turned, Fynn saw the seven-pointed pendant resting upon her bosom.
“Ah, so,” he said, lowering and resheathing his blade. “What is the Brotherhood of the Seven Spies doing in Chalons-en-Les Trois?”
“We are everywhere, my lord,” she returned, settling him a disparaging look in response to his slanderous misuse of the name of her order. “But tonight we act by request of another.”
Fynn had no doubt who that would be. Raine D’Lacourte had fingers in every espionage organization in the realm.
She saw that Fynn understood. “Yes,” she murmured, “His Excellency would see your cousin unharmed.”
“How benevolent of him,” Fynn remarked, unimpressed. “But Ean is hardly a child. There are kings his age.”
“Young princes are as reckless as young kings,” she returned, “and with less protection. Your cousin is in grave danger, my lord.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
The woman arched a brow at him, conveying her displeasure with his less-than appreciative tone. “We gave the Comte d’Ornay specific instructions to detain the Duchess of Aracine and all of her entourage—but especially the young males among her guard—until the Vestal’s agent could arrive.”
“His agent?”
“His Excellency has sent an agent to protect the crown prince, but we have no word of his arrival yet. We thought His Highness would be safe in the Ville de la Chesnaye, but we underestimated the tenacity of the prince’s enemies. Right now Ean val Lorian walks the city streets while a Tyriolicci stalks him for sport.”
“Shade and darkness! How?” Fynn demanded heatedly. Shadow take that fool of a man! “How did Ean get past the guards?”
“Treachery drew him forth,” she replied, her eyes dark jewels in the dim light. “A fire, deliberately set in lure.”
“What? When? Where?”
“All that matters now, my lord, is that your cousin has fallen from the frying pan into the flames, as you say. The Tyriolicci waits only for the opportune moment.”
Fynn swore under his breath again. “What happened to the bloody Geshaiwyn?” At least they fight fair.
“His Excellency told us only that the Tyriolicci now stalk your cousin. Rest assured, if we’ve spotted the prince, so has the Wildling. We sent an alert to le comte’s men as soon as we learned, but—” Abruptly her attention was drawn to the passing of the moon outside. “Hurry, my lord,” she urged. “The hour grows late. He may strike at any moment.”
Hissing a long stream of invective, Fynn spun on his heel and ran.
***
Ean hugged the shadows as he tried to find his way back to le comte’s estates. He feared they’d hurt his head worse than he thought, for he was disoriented and uncertain as to where he was. He was sure he’d passed the last street corner already once, and he had an uneasy feeling that he was walking in circles.
Trying to break the cycle, he turned into a long and shadowed alley, immediately spotting a streetlamp at the other end. He was perhaps halfway through the alley when he saw a misshapen lump barring his way. Abruptly, a form reared out of the shadows, and Ean reached for his sword.
“…Ean?”
The prince halted with his hand around his sword hilt. “Fynn?”
“Nine bloody hells!” Fynnlar crossed the distance between them in a rush and grabbed him by both shoulders, giving him a shake. “What are you doing out here, you wool-brained fool?”
“I might ask the same of you.” Ean looked past his cousin to the lump lying a few paces beyond. The man must’ve been dead for some time, for he was well past odiferous.
Pushing a hand to his throbbing head, Ean closed his eyes. He’d seen so much death since the last moon…so many lives lost, and for what? He couldn’t fathom the events that spun violently around him, only knowing he was somehow caught in the whirlwind. At least a soldier knew what he was fighting for, but this…this was madness.
“Ean, are you unwell?”
“Hit my head pretty hard,” the prince murmured, lifting tired eyes to refocus on his cousin. “I’ll be all right.”
“I thought he was you,” Fynn said, indicating the dead man. He sounded both relieved and immensely annoyed. “Come on. We’d best get moving.”
The prince shook off the numbness edging his thoughts and followed, leaving the nameless man to rot in peace. As they headed out onto the street, neither of them noticed the shadow leaping from rooftop to rooftop in silent pursuit, nor the tawny eyes gazing down from a high alcove across the street.
As they walked back toward the villa, fog began rising from the river, sending fat fingers snaking up the streets to leach the color from the night. They reached a corner, and Fynn turned them onto a long boulevard winding uphill. There he paused and looked warily up and down the road. The cobbled street vanished around a bend several blocks ahead, the way lined with three-story flats whose windows were shuttered and dark.
“Fynn, what—” Ean began.
But Fynn took his arm to halt his forward motion with a warning look—and almost too late. Sudden movement directly before Ean made him rear back with an intake of breath, and something barely missed the prince as it darted past, leaving only the impression of its passing with a breath of wind.
“What was that?” the prince hissed in alarm. His vision sought to find the thing that had streaked by, searching for substance among the night. He could feel blood warming his neck, and his head throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Wearing a dismal expression of impending doom, Fynn drew his sword. “He’s toying with us, the bastard.”
“Who is?” Ean drew his sword as well and held it before him, though he doubted his re
flexes.
“The Tyriolicci.”
“The what?” Ean spared a fast glance at him.
Before Fynn could answer, a strange whispering began, like the whisk of silk across the rough edge of glass. It grew into a harsh whisper, angry and abrasive. The sound had prickly tentacles that pierced into the soft flesh of Ean’s ears and twisted there, making him cringe.
Fynn hunched his shoulders and gritted his teeth as if trying to keep the silent shrieking from entering his ears. “Shadow take the wretched creatures!”
As if by cue of Fynn’s snarled oath, something dark flew out of the shadows and darted across the street faster than the eye could follow. Ean swung his head after it in amazement. “What in Tiern’aval…?” The pounding in his skull lessened only in comparison to the agonizing sound in his ears. And the whispering continued… tormenting, growing soundlessly louder until it shrieked inside Ean’s mind, shattering all attempts to focus.
The Wilding shot out of the shadows again, but this time Ean saw the man—tall and lithe, dressed in loose garments and a shredded black cloak that hissed as he ran. Ean swung his head to follow the man’s path, refusing to blink lest he lose sight of him again. He forced his eyes to focus on the shadows where the man had gone.
There.
He saw him now, lurking against the wall, smiling around big white teeth. His leathery skin was black—so black that it looked charred—and his eyes were golden like the desert sands. His nose was as long and pointed as his chin, a mummer’s mask made into flesh. The man locked gazes with him, and—
Suddenly they were nose to nose. Ean felt the heat of his breath in the same moment that the sting of steel pierced his flesh. Only when warmth began spreading across his chest did the prince realize he’d been marked.
Shade and darkness!
“Ean, he cut you!” Fynn grabbed him by the arm.
“I’m okay.” Ean looked back to the shadows while his chest stung tightly. He added grimly, “He just wanted me to have a taste of what’s to come.”
As if in answer, the whispering swelled in intensity, eliciting groans from both men. “Be ready!” Fynn warned through gritted teeth, and he rushed to meet the advancing Wildling head-on.
The next few moments passed in a blur. The Whisper Lord fought with long, stiletto daggers that speared like claws out of his gloves. His hands crisscrossed with amazing speed, never failing to find their mark on Fynn’s person, while his body twisted and spun to avoid each of the latter’s thrusts—which in turn only seemed to meet with the slashed silk of his garments. So fast did the Whisper Lord dart and cavort that Ean at first felt helpless to join in, for he could barely see the Wildling move until after it had happened, as if the sight had to bounce off the back of his eyes…as if he could only see the reflection of movement.
Finally, Ean found his focus and rushed to help Fynn.
The Whisper Lord marked him before he even got his blade around, a long swipe at the joining of neck and shoulder that burned bitterly. Ean realized that trying to use his sword alone would get him killed, so he pulled his dagger and dove in again with dual blades swinging. The Whisper Lord dodged like a jumping spider and managed in the same maneuver to slash three deep cuts across Ean’s thigh, his daggers flashing first with the silver of steel and then dark with blood. Ean snarled a curse and staggered into the wall, teeth clenched, for the wound was angry and deep.
Fynn’s shirt likewise was shredded, his chest crisscrossed with bloody cuts even though he also fought with sword and dagger. The Wildling dodged and darted like the wind, spinning and striking with the ferocity of a viper with its tail pinned. The sound of their flashing blades connecting was a frenetic click and clatter, the scrape of steel upon steel as fast as a chef sharpening his knives.
Abruptly Fynn hissed a curse and threw himself backwards to avoid a deadly thrust. Those spine-like blades sliced a chunk of flesh out of his side instead, a mortal cut that cast Fynn sprawling onto the stones. Groaning, he held one hand to his midriff and used the other to pull himself out of reach.
Desperation fueled Ean, bringing clarity at last. He dove at the creature with renewed determination, his battered head forgotten in his haste to keep the man away from Fynn. His leg felt sluggish, however, and his foot was hard to control, but he forced through the pain and pushed the Whisper Lord back.
Yet even before they’d made much distance, Ean’s arms were burning and his hands were slick with blood. He was perspiring as though they fought beneath the desert sun, and sweat stung his eyes, urging him to blink—but he dared not, knowing but a moment of blindness was all the Wildling needed to make an end of him.
The man wore a malicious grin as they battled, and his golden gaze was flecked and sparkling against his face of leathery pitch. Perhaps noting Ean’s failing strength, he grinned even broader and began to chant in a voice like sand, “Tur or’de rorum d’rundalin dalal! Tur or’de rorum d’rundalin dalal!” Over and over while he pressed Ean now on the retreat; gleefully, like a madman.
And then he made a sudden thrust, and Ean jumped to avoid the slashing daggers that just missed his throat. He came down unevenly on his bad leg, and his knee buckled. Faltering, he barely spun out of reach of those relentless blades, stumbling and hissing a curse, and still the man bore down on him. A swipe of his hand as Ean scrambled away, and three spiny daggers cut deeply across his back with their sharp fire. The Wildling’s other hand darted for his throat again, but the prince veered and twisted so the blades caught his chin and cheek instead. Ean rolled and thrust his sword upward, but the Wildling merely laughed and arched out of his way; the weapon met only the whisper of silk.
Beaten to the stones, Ean‘s sword seemed lost along with his will. Seeing him defeated, the Whisper Lord advanced slowly, his grim smile the face of Death. With the shrieking noise still accosting his skull, Ean felt only numb acceptance. Shaking, he lowered his head—
A tall form pushed past him, knocking Ean aside as it rushed to engage the Whisper Lord, driving the Wildling back and away, taking the battle out of Ean’s hands.
Ean rolled onto his side, gasping as the last of his strength bled out of him. He lay watching his rescuer take offensive control, wishing he might’ve been more help.
But the woman hardly needed aid. Her brown half-cloak floated behind her as she advanced with long, fast strides, forcing the Wildling on the retreat. She wielded two short swords in a flashing figure-eight maneuver that reminded Ean strangely of the zanthyr’s battle form.
The Whisper Lord smiled no longer. Every thrust and swipe of his daggers was blocked by the woman’s whirling black blades. She matched him stride for stride, spinning when he spun, darting as he did, dodging as he lunged. They performed a ferocious, twisting dance of death where both knew the steps intimately and took them with ease.
As Ean watched, the Wildling slashed his daggered gloves in a motion that would’ve gutted the woman had she been any less of a swordsman, but she spun out of his reach and opened her stance in a toe-to-toe acrobatic leap, thrusting long as she landed. Her sword met with the flesh of his side, drawing a hiss as he jumped back. He glared malevolently at her and pressed one palm to his side.
“Merdanti,” he snarled, his golden eyes hot as they assessed her black blades. Ean saw then that the short swords were identical in make to the zanthyr’s own, if half the size.
Arching brows above a predatory smile, the woman twirled her blades and lunged for him again, and once more the dance began, the meeting of their deadly weapons a rhythmic beating that seemed in time with Ean’s still-racing heart.
And then—
Ean thought he must’ve dreamed it—his tortured mind inventing an impression for what clearly defied explanation. Suddenly the woman and the Wildling seemed to shift and slow, their cloaks floating as if suspended on the wind. Then the woman launched out of her turn so quickly that Ean lost sight of her, only to spot her again as she stood squarely before her opponent, blades crossed. With n
aught but a grimace of effort, she chopped her short swords crosswise through the Wildling’s neck. His head toppled to one side, his body to the stones at her feet.
Silence hung in the street, a palpable blanket sewn of incredulity fringed with pain. The woman lowered her dripping blades and leveled amber eyes on the prince.
“Ean…” Fynn’s voice was faint.
Ean tore his gaze from the stranger who’d saved him and struggled to rise. Pushing one hand against his bleeding leg, he hobbled to Fynn’s side.
The royal cousin lay in an ever-widening pool of blood. Ean swallowed against the nausea in his own stomach, feeling bleak. “What can I do?”
Fynn’s breath was labored. “How…bad is it?”
Ean looked at his cousin’s wound and saw a well opening into his abdominal cavity. “Well,” he managed a steady voice to cover his dismay, “the good news is you don’t have any important organs on that side.”
“No—” Fynn gasped, “…just unimportant ones.”
Ean stripped off his tunic and pressed the cloth to Fynn’s side, but blood soon soaked it through. Suddenly he remembered the presence of the strange woman. He was just turning to beg her aid when the clatter and rumble of galloping hooves drowned out his words. An instant later, Matthieu, Rhys and a host of soldiers came trampling down the street. Ean closed his eyes as relief swept in.
Thank you, blessed Epiphany. And thank this stranger, whoever she is.
Rhys was at his side only a moment later, and Bastian and Cayal at Fynn’s.
Matthieu came over as the captain was lifting Ean in his arms. “Mon dieu!” announced the wide-eyed officer upon seeing Fynn and Ean’s condition. He spared a glance around, his gaze taking in the headless Wildling and the inscrutable woman standing grim-faced over him. “What has become of my quiet posting? Fires and kidnappings and battles with Wildlings in zee wee hours before dawn…I think you would send me to retire early, mon seigneur.”
Cephrael's Hand: A Pattern of Shadow & Light Book One Page 74
