by Ben Hale
He said his name was Shadow, and she’d assumed that was his persona. But he also wielded magic of the same name, and with greater skill than she’d ever witnessed. In addition to his magic, he possessed the swordcraft of a master, defying her as if it were a game. Abruptly he cast a look over his shoulder.
“Have you figured me out yet?” he asked.
“What makes you think I want to?”
“You keep staring.”
She made to argue but his smile merely widened, and she scowled and looked away. He’d witnessed her at her most vulnerable, defied her attempt to kill him—twice—yet he still smiled like the labors of life held no weight.
“Who are you?”
“You already know my name.”
“I know the name you have given me,” Lorica said.
“It means more than you think,” he said with an impish laugh.
“Do you always speak in riddles?”
“You shouldn’t scowl so much,” he said. “It will give you wrinkles.”
She scowled, but that only made him laugh again. She resisted the urge to draw her oathsword and plunge it into his back, and then stifled the surge of attraction. How could a man so aggravating be so captivating?
She swore to ride behind him, to watch in case of betrayal, but he made no motion to attack, and seemed not to care that an assassin of the guild rode at his back. Indeed, he behaved like they were on a weekend ride, without a care to weigh down his shoulders.
The road stretched away from them, muddied from the storm. The air had cooled and the overcast sky heralded more rain, a fact that had driven the travelers to the inns. Trees dotted the landscape, marking the creeks that wound through the rocky hillside. On impulse, she flicked the reins and her horse accelerated to join Shadow.
“Where did you get your magic?”
He raised an eyebrow at her tactically inferior position. “So you trust me now?”
She snorted in disgust.
“I was not born with magic,” he said, smiling. “Magic gave birth to me.”
“Your riddles grow tiresome.”
“Yet it causes your blood to rise,” he said.
“Is there any truth you will speak?” she asked.
He seemed to consider the question with great difficulty. “I do serve Elenyr,” he said with a nod.
“The Hauntress,” she stated.
“Indeed,” he said.
“Who is she?” she asked.
“I asked you about a name,” he countered. “You seek what you are not willing to give.”
She scowled, and then recalled what he’d said earlier and forced her features to relax. She’d been an assassin of renown for years, and now she was guildmaster, so why did she let him make her feel so intimidated? They rode in silence, the miles slipping away until finally she settled on a neutral topic.
“Tell me what you know of the Bloodsworn.”
“Assassins of nearly equal skill to your guild,” he said. “But they seek to usurp your throne of skulls.”
“I already knew this,” she said.
He inclined his head. “The Herosian city guard are forced to look aside while the Bloodsworn commit their murders.”
Lorica raised an eyebrow. “They seek to retain their anonymity.”
“You are formidable,” he replied. “But it seems that Gendor did not found the Bloodsworn. He merely inherited it.”
She nodded, grateful that her earlier assumptions were correct. Gendor was a fearsome killer, and ambitious, but he lacked the tactical mind required to plan and hide such a collection of assassins. That suggested there was another he served.
“How are they connected to the Ravens? And the Order?”
“I do not know,” he said. “But I saw Gendor depart the Thieves Guild in Ilumidora moments before the Bloodsworn attacked. He spoke as if the Ravens were his allies.”
Her eyes widened in surprise as she recognized him. She’d thought him familiar in the assassin refuge, and again afterword, but then his features had been cast in shadow. Now as she rode beside him, she recognized him as the same one she’d spotted leaving the hall.
“How old are you?”
He burst into a laugh. “Older than you suspect. Younger than my age.”
“More riddles?”
“More truth,” he said. “But truth requires a key to understand, and I’m afraid you have yet to merit such a key.”
Loathe to return to his riddles, she motioned west, toward their destination. “And the Order of Ancients?”
“A mystery all its own,” he said, his smile bordering on excited.
“They worship the krey, and the krey have returned,” Lorica said.
“You know of them?”
The question was light, but she noticed a flicker of need, eliciting a smile. “So there are truths you lack.”
“Perhaps.” He allowed a smile. “What do your records speak of the Order?”
The question revealed his need to understand, and she recognized it as one of the reasons he’d followed her out of the assassin refuge. He wished to know about the Order, to understand their identity and the threat they posed. It also gave her leverage. Unfortunately, she didn’t have access to such leverage.
“I do not know,” she admitted, and showed the ring on her hand. “I have the key to the archives, but their location has not been revealed to me.”
“I assumed you would know.”
“The Assassin’s Guild sees many upheavals,” she said. “But the seal of the guildmaster was crafted by an oracle, and it only reveals the archives to one with honor.”
“An oracle?” he asked, surprised. “When?”
“Ages ago,” she said, waving her hand. “When I prove my honor, the seal will open, and I will become the guildmaster my sister was.”
Her throat tightened and she looked away, her thoughts flashing to Loralyn’s body and the council chamber crumbling above them. Then she recalled the krey weapons, the ones that had failed to destroy the entire council chamber. Why had Gendor spared them? She then glanced to Shadow, wondering if he had intervened . . .
“The council chamber,” she said slowly. “You were there.”
“I tipped the battle in your favor,” he said. “Until they trapped you inside and sought to destroy you.”
“You stopped the krey weapons,” she stated.
“Is that what they were?”
His surprise was genuine, and she realized that he’d stopped the council chamber and the Titan from landing on their heads. They would have been crushed without his intervention, meaning he’d saved her life.
The idea that she owed Shadow her life rankled, and she fell silent, realizing that she’d repayed his act by binding him in a tower set to explode. And then sought to kill him just hours later.
Her grief surged to the fore, bright and bitter. Shadow had also stalked her as she stood over the body of her sister. He’d followed her to the home of her brother’s widow, watched her as she grieved, seen her at her most vulnerable. He’d taken as much as he had given.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she forced them away. She was an assassin, trained to kill those who deserved death, those unclaimed by justice. But the tears defied her will, and she looked away, unwilling to let Shadow bear witness.
Whether he saw or not, he remained silent, and for several miles they did not speak. When she was certain her emotions had been caged anew, she shifted the conversation back to the Bloodsworn, and they talked of their foes.
Throughout the journey to Keese, Shadow made no mention of Zenif, or Loralyn, and she studied his demeanor as much as his words. She wanted dearly to hate the man, to have her suspicions proven right. But she was wrong.
Shadow was inquisitive and clever, with a sense of mischief that lacked compassion, but still retained a sense of justice. When they passed through a tavern, Shadow cut the leg from a chair beneath a man berating his children, and when he fell, they burst into laughter. Shadow merely smiled and
slipped the dagger back into its sheath.
There was also an air about him that seemed timeless. He made comments about a village’s history, but not as one who had studied, but as one who had been present. It was an odd form of speech that made her notice other oddities, a twist of a word here, a flicker of an accent there. It was as if he came from everywhere and nowhere, a man with no homeland, yet one that still fought for home.
After a five day ride they crested a hill and Keese came into view. The walled city, half the size of Herosian, bordered the South Sea, and the glittering water stretched to the horizon. The city’s occupants were comprised of every station, all ruled by a duke. The sun was bright, the summer heat beating down upon them.
“I’m ready for a bath,” Shadow said, wiping his forehead.
“You need one.”
He chuckled and motioned to her. “I smell as you do, assassin.”
She fought to suppress the smile and failed. His expression became triumphant, as if her smile was a victory all its own. It annoyed her that Shadow had gotten her to drop her guard, and she clenched a fist on the pommel, the contact serving to extinguish the emotion.
“You call me assassin because you know my identity,” she said, angling her horse down the road. “I think it’s only fair I know yours.”
“You want the truth?” he asked.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but in this, I do not believe you’re ready for the truth.”
“One question then,” she said. “Just one.”
He swatted a fly that had landed on his arm, his features pensive. “What will you ask, I wonder. My name? My origin? Or perhaps the identity of the Hauntress is what you seek.”
“Are you afraid?” she challenged.
“Hardly,” he said. “But you present an intriguing game that I am inclined to pursue. One question, one answer. Do make it a good one.”
She saw in his gaze that he meant his words, so she leaned back in her saddle and considered the choices. Knowing his name might prove useful, but names could be anything. The truth about his companions might also be of use, but in the end one question found its way to the surface, one that seemed to have an obvious answer, yet might hide a wealth of knowledge.
“I wish to know your age.”
“Ah,” he said, his eyes lit with delight. “A clever question indeed.”
“Will you answer it?”
He reined his horse and she did as well, both halting a mile from the city gates. He held her gaze, his dark eyes arresting, his smile pleased and mischievous. Then he inclined his head and swept a hand to himself.
“At the close of the Age of Oracles, my life began.”
A crease lined her forehead. “That would make you over five thousand years old.”
“You asked a clever question, you got a clever answer.”
“How is that possible?”
He laughed lightly and nudged his horse. As he passed, he winked at her. “One question, one answer.”
She watched him pass, confused and intrigued. Was he mad? She jerked her head, dismissing the thought. The truth to his statement was evident, and explained a great deal about his language and knowledge, but it also left her with a host of new questions. As they approached Keese, she realized that she knew his name and age, but his identity remained a mystery.
Chapter 13: The Raven Guildhall
Lorica pondered what Shadow had revealed as they entered Keese and made their way to one of Shadow’s hides. They both possessed places of refuge in the city, but Lorica was loath to reveal hers, least of all to one that had lived for so long.
His hide proved to be an attic. Built into the house of a noble, the attic was only accessible from the roof, suggesting the occupants had no idea that Shadow used their home as a sanctuary. With a host of guards patrolling the gardens around the house, the house was a veritable fortress, but those very fortifications became protections for Shadow’s hidden refuge.
Leaving their rented steeds at a stable, they flew to the roof at night, soaring over the oblivious guards. Alighting at the pinnacle of the large roof, Shadow undid a secret latch and led her inside. Shutting it behind her, he revealed a chamber surprisingly well stocked.
Spacious for an attic, the room contained no light orbs at all, and only moonlight through the window illuminated the space. It was not clean. Instead, the space was cluttered with various items, all likely stolen. A small access in the floor led to the noble’s kitchens, and a number of foodstuffs had clearly been pilfered from the stores.
“Do you ever clean?”
“Not if I can help it,” Shadow said. He opened a case of dried meat and tossed her a piece before claiming his own. Settling into a comfortable chair, he tossed a leg over its arm and began to eat.
“You’ve lived five thousand years, yet you don’t know how to sit in a chair?”
“I know how to be comfortable,” he said, and swept a hand to the room. “Why don’t you relax?”
“I’d rather be hunting Gendor,” she said flatly.
“All work and no play makes an assassin not very much fun.”
“That doesn’t rhyme.”
“It wasn’t supposed to,” Shadow said. “I’m a fragment, not a poet.”
“Fragment?”
Shadow merely smiled, and she realized he’d revealed a piece of information he might not have intended. Shadow changed the subject to the Bloodsworn and she did not press the issue. Instead they talked of the Ravens.
“What makes you think Gendor is in Keese?” she asked.
“Things he said at the Thieves Guild in Ilumidora,” Shadow said. “I suspect if we find the Raven, she can tell us where to find Gendor.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“Sunset was just an hour ago,” Shadow said as if it was obvious. “Thieves aren’t really active this early.”
“In my experience, that’s the best time to kill them,” she said.
“We aren’t trying to kill them.”
He pulled a lever on the chair, allowing him to recline. Settling in, it was obvious he intended to sleep. He was so relaxed that he could have been taking a nap next to a lake, instead of an intruder in another’s home.
“How can you be so relaxed at a time like this?”
“Like this.” He closed his eyes and smiled.
“People get killed for being this irritating.”
“Hasn’t happened yet,” he said.
She resisted the urge to draw her blade and remind him who she was. But she wasn’t going to kill him, and he knew it. She sighed and scanned the attic for a bath, but the room lacked a second room.
“If you’re looking to bathe, just use the house of our host,” he said, using his chin to point downward. “They don’t mind.”
“They don’t know.”
He smiled again, and again she wondered at the man’s sheer brashness. He’d obviously snuck into the noble’s house and used their bath, and probably enjoyed the prospect of getting away with the act.
She considered foregoing the bath, but the stink of the road was too great, so she reluctantly lifted the trapdoor and dropped into the kitchen storeroom. It contained two doors, one to the kitchens, and one to a back entrance of the house. When shut, the secret trapdoor was invisible with the rest of the ceiling, the seam lost to the shadows, which had likely been cast by her companion.
Slipping into the back corridor, she checked several rooms, searching for the bathing chamber. Night was just setting in and the house prepared for sleep, only the cooks and servants going about their labors, along with the guards, of which there seemed to be an abnormally high number.
Everywhere she looked she saw wealth. Gold and silver marked the wood, and the walls were made of finely polished marble. On soft feet she searched the house and then found the bathing chamber, a room as large as a commoner’s house. Steam rose from the water, wetting the walls.
She left her gear in an obsc
ure corner and then disrobed before striding into the water, obviously heated by dwarven fire stones. The warmth seeped through her bare skin and into her bones, and for a moment, she relished the sense of solitude.
It was clear why Shadow had chosen this particular house to hide his refuge. The house was so large the nobles would rarely use so much space. The bathing chamber was in a corner where one could hear approaching footfalls, giving plenty of time to escape through the servant’s entrance. Shadow had all but stolen their home.
She wanted to think of Shadow as impulsive and brash, but the more she saw, the more she realized he had a brilliant and clever mind. She imagined him floating in the bath like he owned the house.
Finishing her bath, she dried and dressed from clothes in her pack, and then returned to the secret attic. When she arrived, she found Shadow asleep in his chair, his body relaxed, as if he didn’t care that he traveled with an assassin of the guild.
She shook her head and reluctantly claimed the bed, fleetingly wondering if he’d used the chair so she could have the bed. Reclining with her sword in hand she fell asleep and dreamed of her fallen sister.
She woke to find the room dark, and Shadow absent. She gathered her gear and ate some of his food until Shadow slipped through the hidden window. His eyes lit up when he found her sitting in his chair.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“You were kind to let me have the bed,” she said.
He laughed lightly. “If I wanted the bed I would have taken it. I’m not the one with honor.”
“Then who is?”
“One of my brothers.”
“Another fragment?”
“You are more clever than I gave you credit for,” he said, wiggling a finger at her.
“I did ask a clever question.”
“Is that a sense of humor I hear?”
“No,” she said, and then smiled. She wondered how she could smile under the circumstances, but the humor found a chink in her sadness.
He laughed lightly. “We should go. The Ravens will be out and we should scout their stronghold.”
