Dalathos stared at his sword — and into its secret.
When he’d drunkenly struck and tempered it, he’d put all his rage into it. For his mother dying at his birth. For his father abandoning him as a baby. And for himself being in love with another man. His Uncle Tollin and Auntie Bronda cared for him, but could never love him like a true son. Borras and Edras acted like brothers, but in their hearts they knew they weren’t. Men in the camps gave Dalathos respect for his uncle’s patronage, but without it, they would have shunned him. Especially if they knew what an abomination he was. Dalathos was a man with no place in the world — a cuckoo.
Through the magic of the forge he’d made the sword of power he’d always dreamed of. Only by holding such a symbol might he right the wrongs of his life, and the world with it.
He re-sheathed Protector.
Dalathos undressed, removing his mail over his head, then his padded tunic. He sat down and unstrapped his boots. The floorboards were cool beneath his feet, and his linen undershirt was light on his chest. He pissed in the bucket at the corner, taking care not to splash Ulric’s gear. Then he blew out the lamp and got into the bed. He pushed aside dried fleabane flowers and their soapy smell from the mattress, and pulled the blanket over himself.
What would the city smiths think of his blade? Surely they’d marvel at the quality of his work, and put him up with tools and a room to begin his apprenticeship? He could only hope so. Else his journey, and life, were wasted.
First Kill
Lora
She banked aside, stretching out wings as black as a bat. The rooftops pulled away and she cut through the wood smoke that drifted up. The night air was freezing, but she felt exhilarated and free as she flew over Corianth. Nothing but this moment in life mattered; nothing else existed.
Tiny lights flickered and flowed along her harness, and she knew it was their magic that held her on the wind. Her uncle had given her that marvel and more, and tonight she would put it all to good use.
She glided over the lamps that marked the Avenue of Processions. Shadowed figures below looked so tiny! She wondered if any of them might see her. She had been instructed to wear thin gray robes over close-fitting leather, to make her less visible, while still keeping warm. And the lights of her harness were too small to be seen from a distance. But she had painted her face white, and streaked it with black lines from her hair to her chin. If she was seen, let them think her a demon from a Varryn painting. She willed, dared even, for someone to look up and spy her. But nobody did. She flapped over streets then soared again.
She laughed with glee as the rush made her tummy rise. She used rods attached to the wings for steering. It had taken a month to perfect using the harness. Flying required different control. But this magic was all down to the mind — she thought, and it happened. It wasn’t the natural way to move, and she had tumbled and bruised herself when first trying to land. She had learned to think to swoop, slow, and lower herself. Then it was simply a matter of stepping out from the wind.
She had practiced hard and now she would need it. For her first mission she would have to land in a confined space. She had already spied out her position in the Artisan’s District. But she was going to have a little more fun flying before she began.
Her heart beat fast as she wheeled before stars and danced by the moons. Twisting, rolling, diving, she was the mistress of the sky, and master of the night. When her muscles finally began to ache, she pulled back into steady flight.
Time to begin.
She glided back down, low and level over the rooftops. Grand buildings appeared ahead, and she began to pull back; this landing would be tricky and there was no room for error. Go in too fast and she’d tumble below. At best she might fall soft in a garden and break an arm; at worse, smash her skull on the road and everything would be over.
Time to focus.
She lifted her arms out — her wings opened fully and slowed her descent. As she began to drop, she poised her legs like a dancer, and readied to land. The rooftops came rushing up below. She concentrated as trained, and then seemed to float, drifting on the wind rather than racing it. She marked her spot, kept her attention on it, and stepped down with barely a noise.
She crouched. For a moment, it was strange to have stopped, as if the roof should be moving beneath her. Then she touched a hand to her harness and the wings folded in.
The houses here were timber and stone, with small gardens before them. Lanterns raised on iron frames lined the road. A black carriage rattled along, coachman steady on top. A knight of the Emperor’s Guard, in blue and his breastplate, clipped by on a black horse.
A slate rattled beside her, teased by the breeze.
She stared across the road. Lamplight came from behind a glazed window on an upper floor. A hunched gray figure and rich red draperies were visible inside the apartment.
She smiled. He was perfectly placed. There would be no need to wait tonight.
She took the pack from her back and opened it — removed limbs of black lacquered wood, and clicked them together to create a bow. Stringing it was more difficult as she had to stand, but she accomplished that without incident. She rummaged in her pack again and took out a long arrow, a tube fixed behind the head. She then took out a small pot with holes that held a glowing coal. She notched the special arrow and sighted her range to aim for the window. Satisfied that the bow held with the draw, she memorized her position, then lowered it. She took the lid from the pot and touched the coal to the back of the tube, and blew on it. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a bright white spark flared with smoke.
She notched it quickly and looked away, blinking back the afterglow. She remembered her aim from a moment ago, and returned to that position. She drew and held steady, glancing ahead only to fix her target clearly.
Then loosed the string from her fingers.
The arrow crossed the street and left a thin trail of smoke. It embedded in the window frame. The paper tube on the arrow hissed white.
She put the bow down and pushed the pot back into her bag. She pulled her wings over her head and about her, like a cover. She left a crack only to peep through.
The figure within the apartment stood, looked out of the window, then returned to a desk.
The white spark disappeared.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
A red flash, a shock of thunder. The front of the building shattered. Broken masonry and spinning timbers thudded and clanked across the road. She thought she saw a body tumble through the debris, then billowing dust obscured it.
There was a whinny, and the carriage horses bolted. The coachman shrieked and cracked his whip as he fought for control.
She grinned and quickly dismantled her bow, returning all her things to her pack. She fixed it upon her back. Then she stood, and with a hand to her chest she strode forward and leaped from the roof. The wings outstretched behind her. The ground rushed closer. Then she arced up.
She banked to gain height. The knight of the Emperor’s Guard lay on his back in the road, his mount rearing. As her shadow swooped over him he looked up and saw her — and screamed.
She laughed from sheer accomplishment.
As she flew toward the stars, she could only wonder with joy at who her next targets would be.
PART 2: FIRE AND LOATHING
Cold Morning
Jerine
Jerine ate a porridge of salted oats, flavored with raisins and a dusting of cinnamon. The Lion Inn’s common room was quiet, the dawn light hazing through the windows. The smell of baked bread drifted in the air. Customers were huddled asleep on the floor, or across benches. The only sounds were the mumbles of conversation, groans or grunts, and the shout from the street of a passing fire seller.
She took another spoonful, enjoying the taste. At least the food here was what you paid for. Unlike the beds. She’d woken to find itchy little bites on the calf of a leg. If Tilirine had returned, where had she slept?
Jerine had
seen nothing of her sister since she’d left last night. She knew she shouldn’t worry, but it was hard not to be concerned. Her worst fear wasn’t that Tilirine had been hurt, but that she’d abandoned her without saying goodbye.
With a sigh, Jerine finished and put down her spoon. She lifted the locket that hung at her neck, and pinched it open. A tiny portrait of her mother stared back — Andana Corcassian. Jerine couldn’t remember what she looked like without it. What would she have thought of her daughters grown up, fractious and arguing like never they had as children? They were all that was left of the family name. Perhaps it really was best that it died with them.
Jerine clasped the locket shut, and slipped it back down the front of her shirt, smarting at the disappointing reunion.
She took some leaf from a pocket, to improve her humor. The moment the bitter tang broke on her tongue, her sense of place grew. She became surrounded by hopes and dreams, failures and miseries, washed by the light of a new day, equally welcomed and hated.
She stood to leave. Something was behind her. Not a presence, but an absence of one. And that only occurred near one other person.
Jerine forced a smile and turned, as Tilirine approached. She only hoped that her sister’s own humor might have improved. “Good morning! You didn’t return to our room last night. I was worried for you.”
Tilirine seated herself across the table. “I presumed you would be asleep. I did not wish to disturb you. Sirath was awake, so I slept on his floor.”
“It would have been nice to know you were safe.”
Tilirine held her voice low. “Sirath boasted that you let him hold your purse. And that it was quite full.”
Jerine’s heart fell. She’d hoped for at least a little small talk, not petty reprimands. Did they not have ten years of catching up to do? “The call of the Goddess grows stronger. Sirath feels important to that. It was the easiest way to appeal to him.”
Tilirine was quiet for a moment. “If you want to keep both your money and Sirath’s company, you should hide one from the other. Or else find both shortly gone.”
Jerine had already noticed how Sirath’s gaze lingered on her satchel, and planned to address that. “Is there anything else you care to find fault with?”
Tilirine pointed at her. “You have invited another person into this business, despite giving your word otherwise.”
“I have not!” Jerine flushed at the unfounded accusation. Even though she would if she could. Jerine and her companions already made six, but seven was a more significant number. Seven heavens and seven hells. The seven incarnations of Pollos. And the seven colors of light, from which everything was formed. Even the number of Sirath’s mules. Seven travelers were to share her lodgings. How could she fail to recognize the signs? But she’d seen nothing of Ezekiel the albino, since paying for their rooms.
“Then you had better find another,” Tilirine said. “Councilor Amberlin expects to hire seven.”
Jerine felt a flash of surprise, then annoyance at Tilirine’s contrariness. She fumbled to find the words to frame an indignant reply. A serving girl interrupted to deliver a basket of hot bread rolls. Jerine indicated two, passed over a docket, and fumed in silence until the girl left. “Any other suggestions?”
“Find a husband.”
Jerine clenched her jaw. “I live for the Goddess, not other people’s expectations. That’s my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility is to marry.”
Jerine glared at her sister. And decided against saying anything more, in case she made some comment she couldn’t take back.
Tilirine added nothing. They ate in a tense silence.
The morning bell rang over the city, announcing that an hour had passed since dawn. The day had begun, and sourly so.
Jerine pushed aside her bread, her appetite spoiled. As she rose to leave, it occurred to her that Tilirine had said nothing of her meeting last night. “The councilor wishes to hire seven. To do what, exactly?”
“He will come to us with that information.”
Frustrated by her sister’s manner and lack of answers, Jerine slapped the remaining food dockets to the table. “When the others arrive, give them these.” She regretted her curtness immediately, but walked on anyway. She met Erin coming down the staircase and managed to force a smile, before hurrying past.
Jerine was breathless by the time she reached the top floor, but resolved to deal quickly with the issue of Sirath. She padded across the hallway, and found the door to his room slightly ajar. Cautiously, she peered in. Sirath lay sprawled asleep across the bed. He looked so peaceful and innocent. Her gaze lingered a moment, then she glanced around. The room was otherwise empty. She gently pulled the door closed.
She entered her own room, and dragged her satchel from under the bed. She unstrapped it and removed her black velvet purse, untied it, and pocketed a handful of guilders. She retrieved Erin’s larger waxed bag, and hid her purse in there. Satisfied, she pushed both satchel and bag back under the bed.
If Sirath really was tempted, it was imperative he didn’t run with her money. If he did look for her purse, but not find it, he might leave her satchel alone. And not realize most of her gold coins were sewn behind the suede lining. At least he was unlikely to search Erin’s belongings, after she’d appeared to have had her purse stolen.
Even though it was Jerine who’d slipped it from Erin’s belt, while helping her mount up outside Nel’s. It wasn’t just Sirath who had sticky fingers — Jerine had learned a trick or two in the underworld of the Crossroads Brotherhood. She’d left Erin’s purse at The Apple Tree for safekeeping, and intended to retrieve it when they left Corianth. Until then, it was important to keep Erin beholden to her. And have this group stay together for the Goddess. That’s why she’d chosen this inn — somewhere big enough to have rooms available, while likely too expensive to be affordable. Except to her, with the money Decimos had given her with his own bloody hands.
Jerine stood back, satisfied that Sirath’s temptation was one less issue to worry about. As she stepped into the hall she heard a sound, perhaps Sirath waking. She walked in to tell him that food was available downstairs.
And stopped.
Ezekiel was seated in the corner. His skin was white as marble, and his short hair such a light blond that he seemed to have no eyebrows. His nose was wide, his lips large — and his eyes were violet. An ivory-white gown covered his body. A knotted staff was crooked in his arm that had a luster more like dull metal than wood.
A weasel was perched on the corner table next to him. Ezekiel was feeding it bread.
Jerine smiled with delight to have found him again.
Ezekiel looked up — and recoiled in fright.
Jerine raised her palms. “I’m Jerine, remember? I booked these rooms for us to share.”
Ezekiel cocked his head, and the weasel stared at her.
Jerine couldn’t shake the feeling that they were one person looking at her through two sets of eyes. But who was doing the looking, Ezekiel or the weasel?
Uncertain how to approach, she concentrated on an inner calm and projected it, intending for that to relax the man. Somehow that seemed to have no effect. She attempted polite conversation. “Have you traveled far?”
Finally, Ezekiel spoke, “A very long way.” His voice was soft and mellifluous, like a singer’s.
At least it was a friendly response. “Really? How far?”
“That depends ... on what you’re measuring.” Ezekiel smiled, as if keeping a private jest to himself.
Jerine sighed, unable to force a good humor. “Well, if you’re hungry, there’s food downstairs for you. Join us, if you will. There’s no need to be an outsider.” She hoped that he would, but felt her heart slide. She’d already annoyed her sister, and not yet spoken properly with Dalathos. Last night her attempt to join Erin in spiritual philosophy had fallen flat. And now she struggled to engage Ezekiel. She had to find a way to bond him to her.
As she wande
red back into the hallway a thought struck her. The room had been empty a moment before. How had Ezekiel appeared so suddenly?
An Agent of Subterfuge
Tilirine
Tilirine put her spoon down by her bowl and clenched her fists. Jerine had written before of a sense of destiny — that her life would be sacrificed for some noble purpose. Now she insisted upon it. Did she not realize how unfair it was to demand others accept that? Especially her sister? Had they not been close as children, and suffered enough, fleeing in the dark, terrified and in tears? They had only just met after a decade apart. Why then should Jerine persist on pursuing this childish fancy, and expect Tilirine to be happy that her sister sought to die?
But that was now Jerine’s manner. Instead of seeking the responsibilities of a family, she reveled in recklessness. Gave away her traveling equipment? Wandered alone with a bag of gold? And showed it to every passing vagabond?
Tilirine had come here on a fool’s dream. Jerine did not need a sister, but someone to protect her from her own folly. Tilirine might not even be able do that, until she completed her training, and mastered the Khalaki. For the moment she would have to remember the lesson of patience, just to tolerate her sister’s presence.
It was Tilirine’s vision that had sent her here — of herself as fire and earth, and Jerine as air and water. Vindaresh had interpreted a duality, suggesting the sisters should be reunited. His wife, Vashninda, agreed. But air fuelled flames, and earth and water became mud, obscuring everything. She should have argued to remain in her refuge, the one place where she had been treated as a person. Yet she could not ignore the instruction of the guru who had stilled her mind, and silenced the scream she had carried since childhood.
Tilirine snorted with annoyance, and threw her gaze across the common room.
And noticed him immediately, striding between tables with stiff arrogance: a Gallerean of middle years, large rheumy eyes above a beaked nose, his black hair oiled back, and his chin closely shaved by a barber’s razor. His tunic was of fine gray wool, cut precisely, worn over a bleached white shirt. He carried a black leather bag under one arm. There was little doubt he served a family of some distinction.
Gathering (Chronicles of Empire 1) Page 9
