Revenant Winds (The Tainted Cabal Book 1)

by Mitchell Hogan

  A young boy in a rope-belted smock bustled around the room, stirring the coals in the fireplace, plumping the cushions, wiping a rag across dust-laden bookshelves. As Aldric stood in the doorway, waiting to be admitted, the boy stopped to stare, then dropped his dusting rag and hurried over to a table, where he began measuring dried tea leaves into a ceramic pot.

  “Come closer, boy,” Shalmara whispered. She spoke clearly and steadily, though her voice was as dry as autumn leaves.

  It was a long time since anyone had called Aldric “boy”. He was approaching his thirties, and his role and time in the wilderness had lent him a rugged appearance. He took a few steps toward the most powerful sorcerer in the known world and went down on one knee. His Church wouldn’t like it, but she was a commanding force, and he would be a fool to insult her. But he hesitated before moving closer, and Shalmara noticed.

  “According to reports, you were an unenthusiastic student,” she said dryly.

  Aldric always felt diminished when he returned to the Evokers, ashamed of being a disruptive and reluctant student. As a young man pulled from his divine calling and ordered to make the most of his burgeoning sorcerous talents, Aldric had been angry, and his teachers’ concerned looks had only served to infuriate him further. In the end, they taught him what they could, considering his refusal to draw on the dusk-tide power. He sat through their lessons and did the bare minimum to be considered proficient. The Church had paid a great deal of money to train him, and he’d known the quickest way to escape was to pass whatever tests the Covenant set him and be returned to the Church. Still, he’d grown to understand his teachers in a way. They enjoyed sorcery and couldn’t come to terms with why anyone wouldn’t. It was a gift, they insisted. But the only gifts he’d wanted were his god’s divine mark and the ability to heal.

  “I was young,” Aldric replied.

  It would have to do. To tell the Grandmaster of the Evokers that he’d hated his time here would serve no purpose. And she probably already knew.

  “You have your catalyst still?”

  Aldric started, eyes narrowing. It wasn’t the question he’d expected. Before he could stop himself, one hand moved to touch the lump on his chest. “Of course.” Months of preparation and no small amount of sorcery went into manufacturing a catalyst; no cant could be transformed from words and calculations and thought into sorcery without one.

  His eyes went involuntarily to her chest and saw beneath her robe the telltale lump. It stood out like a walnut and was larger than his. It had to be, to cope with higher-tier sorceries.

  Someone tugged at his elbow—the boy, holding up a steaming cup of tea.

  Aldric smiled his thanks and took the cup. He stood there awkwardly, not sure whether to sip or place it on a nearby table or just hold it.

  “I’ve been told that you resist the dusk-tide,” Shalmara said. “Foolishness. You cannot master sorcery if you use only one part of the whole.”

  She accepted a cup from the boy and slurped the tea loudly, heedless of its heat.

  “I don’t want to master sorcery,” Aldric retorted. “I know enough to perform my role within the Church, and that’s all I’ll ever require.”

  “You must overcome your reticence. One day, you’ll wish you had—when you are unable to draw enough power or fashion a complex cant to save someone you love.”

  “My work leaves me no time for love.”

  “Then what is its purpose?”

  “I …” Aldric hesitated. She was twisting his thoughts, trying to unnerve him. “You know what I do. Your agreement with the Church means you have all the details.”

  He took a sip of his tea to cover his nervousness.

  “No,” Shalmara said, “not all.”

  “Most. What I do makes the world a safer place.”

  “Partly. But as you and I know, there are far worse terrors out there than leftover ruins.”

  She was referring to the Church’s millennia-old battle with the Tainted Cabal and their demons.

  “You can barely fashion a ward to protect yourself,” she continued, “a lowly second-tier sorcery. The higher cants are out of your reach. What will you do when you come face-to-face with a demon lord or one of their progeny?”

  “That will probably never happen.”

  Aldric was comfortable with the cants he could perform. The higher sorceries, from third tier onwards, required more dedication than he was willing to give. A second-tier ward protected him from most physical forces. Third tier expanded to include heat and cold, and a fourth-tier ward excluded basic sorceries.

  “But it might. The Tainted Cabal are out there, somewhere. Your Church knows this. We know this.”

  “They are scattered and lost. A shadow of their former power. No major demon has been seen for centuries. We’ve rooted them out, destroyed them. And those tainted with demon blood grow weaker with each generation. Their threat has diminished to almost nothing.”

  “Or perhaps they’ve grown smarter and are hiding.”

  Aldric shook his head. Impossible. He couldn’t believe it. “The Church would know. Their informants would have seen something. You know enough of demons to realize their base cravings overrule their thoughts. They could no more hide from us than a hungry tiger could stay away from a herd of goats.”

  “We shall see. Well then, to business.”

  Finally, thought Aldric. “No, no, and no,” he said, knowing her questions before she asked them. Every time he reported back to the Evokers it was the same: pointless questions he gave the same answers to. He didn’t know what they sought, but answering to them was part of the agreement the Evokers had with the Church.

  Shalmara held out her cup, and the serving boy rushed to take it.

  “You try my patience, boy,” she whispered, and Aldric saw a gleam in her darkened eye sockets. “First, have you found any sorcery you do not recognize?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Have you found anything that absorbs the dawn-tide or dusk-tide?”

  Apart from sorcerers? “No.”

  “Lastly, have you found the Chain of Eyes?”

  “No. Your questions are cryptic,” he added. “If I knew what you were after, I could answer them better. Or keep an eye out while I’m—”

  “Just as your Church seeks signs of demons, so must the Evokers be forever vigilant in our task.”

  “And what task is that?”

  “Join us, and you will find all the answers you seek.”

  “I am sworn to Menselas. You will not corrupt me.”

  Shalmara laughed, a dry, gasping chuckle. “Your Church already thinks you are corrupted.”

  Heat rose to Aldric’s face. He clenched and unclenched his hands. Sorcery had been thrust upon him, unwanted. That the Church thought less of him was an open wound, one that Shalmara deliberately probed.

  “I am touched by Menselas,” he grated through clenched teeth. “Sworn to the priesthood. A healer.”

  “When was the last time you healed?” Shalmara said. She waved a hand in dismissal. “Go now. I am weary.”

  The boy came and stood between her and Aldric, giving him a stern glare. Aldric looked for somewhere to place his teacup and eventually settled on handing it to the boy.

  He left, still fuming. Luckily, it would be some time before he had to return. Facing the Evokers and their enigmatic questions was a duty he performed reluctantly. His primary duty was to Menselas and his Church.

  Chapter Three

  Dark Business

  THE BALL WAS A perfect opportunity for Kurio to infiltrate the heavily guarded Vandred Estate. She slipped in with the musicians and their carts loaded with instruments and trappings. It seemed they were an expensive troupe, for they set up their own props and alchemical lighting effects to add to their theater. She kept her head down and assisted by carrying a heavy box in through the servants’ entrance. The musicians thought she was a household servant, and the servants that she was a musician.

  She glanc
ed around, made sure no one was looking, and stole away. Easy.

  Finding a narrow back staircase, she ascended to the next floor. It didn’t take long to locate the room where the valuables were secured—Willas, the noble who’d hired her, had given her a diagram of the residence, which she’d memorized before burning the paper to ash.

  There were a few lamps around the room, but she lit only one and turned it down low, placing it in a corner where the flame couldn’t be seen from under the door.

  Against one wall was what she’d come for. A locked chest made of narrow strips of ironwood, its edges banded with ensorcelled orichalcum. She knew she couldn’t break it open; and even though it measured only two feet square and one high, it weighed more than four men could comfortably carry. Set into the front of the chest was a locking mechanism: a circle of orange-tinted orichalcum with runed dials and a keyhole. Designed by the master craftsman Sandoval—his stylized initials were clearly visible in the lower right-hand section. Good. Her information had been correct.

  The worst thing about taking on paid jobs was that the people you were stealing from inevitably expected someone to make the attempt, so they took extra precautions. Not that she couldn’t handle it, but sometimes the bother almost wasn’t worth it. Like in this case.

  She sat back on her heels and examined the mechanically locked box. From somewhere below came the sound of music and people laughing over the hum of a hundred conversations. The noble house of Frederick hosted a ball every few months, and most of the nobles in Caronath attended. They brought along their children, dressed in the finest clothes the city’s tailors and seamstresses had to offer, in order to parade them around and arrange matches. She breathed a sigh of relief that she’d escaped all that nonsense. Her family thought she’d run away and probably died somewhere, and Kurio was fine to leave it like that. No more being dressed up like a doll, no boring lessons on sewing and manners and whatever else a noblewoman was meant to know. And best of all, no more beatings and derision from her father and brothers. Even after all these years, her skin chilled at the memories, and her stomach twisted with revulsion.

  She shook her head, bringing herself back to the present. You have a job to do, she chided herself. As her lazy, womanizing teacher of all things thieving had said to her countless times before being beaten to death in a tavern brawl: Get it done and get out.

  Kurio sniffed and frowned. There was something familiar in the air she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was the dust and the scent of polished wood and oiled locks, similar to her own apartment.

  No matter. She flexed her fingers and rubbed her hands, then slipped her thin backpack from her shoulders. Taking out her toolkit, she unfolded the leather flaps to reveal her implements. She hesitated, then from her backpack withdrew her custom-made repeating crossbow. She made sure both mechanisms were loaded and cocked, then placed it on the floor beside her. The royals it had cost would have kept her living comfortably for years, but it had been worth it. The weapon had saved her life more than a few times. And if she wanted to live comfortably, she wouldn’t have left her family.

  First things first.

  Kurio closed her eyes and calmed her breathing. She thought of clouds, then nothing, and as with every other time, she felt her senses extend from her around the room. Something wasn’t right, although exactly what eluded her. There was … danger … but she couldn’t sense any traps or poison, no alchemical devices or mechanisms that would scorch the flesh from her bones. She’d heard that was how Martiens had died on a job. What had remained of him fit into a child’s coffin. She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.

  After several long moments, she let out her breath and opened her eyes. Nothing. The danger could be in her imagination, except her talent had never steered her wrong before. The problem was it was too sporadic and ambiguous. She’d been tested, and her talent wasn’t sorcery. Which left … nothing else. Maybe it was simply uncanny intuition.

  She looked at the chest in disapproval, but it remained silent. There was nothing she could do but continue … carefully. She hadn’t lasted this long, or built her name up, by rushing and making mistakes, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  Kurio slipped a few picks and her L-shaped tension wrench out of her toolkit. Humming to herself, she set to work. In a few minutes, the lock turned and clicked, and she gave a satisfied sigh.

  She removed a slim leatherbound volume from her backpack and turned to the chapter on Sandoval mechanisms. It had been penned in Sandoval’s native tongue, Durante. Kurio couldn’t read it, but that didn’t matter. Outlined over a few pages were schematics of most of Sandoval’s locks, including this one.

  She’d appropriated the book from the current leader of the Night Shadows’ library. Less than intelligent Ritte probably didn’t know what he’d inherited. And though it was unlikely he’d miss the book, he might. Which was why Kurio planned on returning it. They’d been after her to join their silly thieves’ organization for years, and she didn’t want them to have anything over her.

  Examining the mechanism, she turned the dials until the swallow-shaped rune matched up with the squiggly triangle, the sun aligned with the moon, and the fish lined up with the tree.

  All right. That should do it.

  If she was wrong, a poisonous gas would be expelled into the room.

  Kurio gripped her picks and wrench, which remained in the lock, then turned them clockwise. Multiple clicks sounded from inside the chest, and the lid popped ajar.

  “Thank you, Kurio,” came a voice from behind her.

  She grabbed the crossbow, leaped to her feet, and whirled.

  A shadow stepped from behind one of the curtains framing the window. The figure moved into the feeble light of the lamp, but she’d already realized who it was. The scent: cloves.

  She cursed inwardly. Damn it. I thought it was the wood.

  Gerret was a decent thief, but he had some strange notions. Probably because he lacked an education. And the pox-ridden whoreson was trying to steal her loot. Well, he wouldn’t leave here with anything if she had any say in the matter. It was all hers. She’d worked for it.

  “Gerret, you scumbag, what are you doing here?”

  There could only be one reason, of course. The concerning thing was he’d been lying in wait for her. He’d known this was her job and when she was going to do it. Which meant her benefactor, Willas, had been compromised.

  “I was just passing by,” Gerret said. “Saw you duck in with the musicians, and thought there might be something here worth my while. Lower that crossbow of yours, and we’ll divide the spoils.”

  He grinned at her, revealing crooked bottom teeth. Kurio kept her expression blank. His hands were empty, but she knew he was good with a knife. There was no way she was putting her weapon down.

  “Divide the spoils?” she said incredulously. “You’ve done nothing. I opened the chest. How about you run along, and I won’t tell the Night Shadows you tried to muscle in on my job? I’m not a member, but I pay their cut. If they find out, they’ll whip you bloody.”

  And that, Kurio realized, was the problem. Gerret wouldn’t risk punishment. Which meant there was a chance she wouldn’t leave here alive.

  He wouldn’t … would he?

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Why would I risk it?”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You think I’m a fool, don’t you? Uneducated and stupid.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Shut up! You think you’ll go crying to the Night Shadows and they’ll fix everything.” He spat on the floor between them. “But you won’t. Want to know why?”

  Because I’ll be dead.

  Uneasiness whispered through her breast. Kurio gripped her crossbow harder and applied a little more pressure with her thumb on the trigger lever.

  She spoke calmly, trying to sound reasonable. “Because there’s plenty in the chest for both of us, and we’d be fools to let something like this blo
w up into something big. Neither of us should do anything we’ll regret later.”

  She looked at him expectantly, hoping he’d follow her reasoning down the nonviolent path. The air suddenly felt hot and stifling, as if there were a roaring fire in the room.

  Gerret stepped slowly along the wall, moving closer to the chest. Kurio mirrored him, stepping in the opposite direction to keep distance between them.

  “I stopped regretting things years ago,” he said, sounding amused. “That’s what makes me better than everyone else.”

  Kurio had to stop herself from snorting. Instead, she let her gaze linger on the chest.

  “Open it,” she said. “We don’t even know what’s inside. I’m sure there’s plenty for the both of us.”

  His blue eyes flicked toward the chest for an instant. “We won’t be splitting it. I’m taking it all.”

  “That’s not going to—”

  “All of it!”

  She clenched her teeth in frustration. “Will you stop interrupting me?”

  “Why? Because what you have to say is far more intelligent than my words? You think you’re better than all of us with your fancy education.”

  Unease rippled through Kurio. “I just read a lot, that’s all.”

  “Stop lying. I know your secret. You went to the university here in Caronath. Where only the nobles’ offspring go.”

  “I didn’t.”

  But she had. How did Gerret know? She’d been so careful. Nothing linked her to her past, and good riddance to it. But if Gerret had found out something …

  “There’s an alchemist on Henwick Lane,” he said. “Do you know it?”

  “Of course. Everyone does.”

  “That’s where you get your special tincture, isn’t it?”

  A fist squeezed Kurio’s heart. She couldn’t breathe.

  Gerret smiled his crooked-toothed smile. “Nothing to say? Thought no one would find that out, didn’t you?”

  Kurio sucked in the barest of breaths through clenched teeth. Sweat made her grasp on the crossbow slippery, and she wished she’d spent extra on a sea-ray-skin grip.

  “It’s for womanly problems,” she said.