Light and Darkness: The Complete Series: Epic Fantasy Romance

by Jayne Castel

  Asher reached down and plucked the knife off the walkway, pocketing it. “That’s right,” he muttered, wishing his drunken assailant would keep his voice down. His cursing would bring soldiers running. “Best leave me alone.”

  He stepped away and circled around the prone figure, half expecting him to leap to his feet and come after him again. He appeared crazed enough. Instead, the youth rolled onto his side, cradling his crushed hand. “Enchanter turd,” he snarled, before spitting on the planks between them. “Shadows take you and your kind.”

  Asher didn’t reply. He was already moving on, heading toward the end of Trout Walk, although he found himself throwing wary glances over his shoulder at where his attacker had now sat up. He’d heard enchanters weren’t well liked in Thûn, and it seemed the tales were true. Asher glanced down, turning over his right palm as he did so. The eight-pointed star, darkly outlined with a pale center glowed in the lamplight.

  I’ll put on some gloves tomorrow.

  A short while later Asher reached Broad Walk, the town’s main thoroughfare, where he finally found signs of life. Men in oilskins loitered outside the entrances to taverns, and scantily-clad whores, furs draped around their shoulders to keep the cold at bay, wandered slowly down the walk. As she sauntered by, one of the women made eye contact with Asher and drew back her cloak, revealing a low cut damask gown underneath. Her skin was pale with cold, but she had a smile fixed upon her painted mouth. “In the mood for some company tonight, handsome?”

  Asher flashed her an apologetic smile, shook his head, and moved on. He wasn’t in the mood for anything except a hot meal and a warm bed.

  A few yards ahead he spied two men clad in black leather with blood-red cloaks rippling down their backs advancing toward him. Asher bowed his head, hoping they wouldn’t look too closely and see that his cloak was damp and the clothing underneath sodden. He was glad he’d drawn his hood up, obscuring his long white-blond hair. It was a feature that always made him stand out in a crowd.

  He felt the soldiers’ gazes slide over him, assessing him, but they didn’t call out. He walked on, unmolested.

  Farther on, the aroma of spice mixed with fish wafting out from a tavern reminded him of his empty belly. Asher went inside, where he ordered a bowl of fish stew and half a loaf of coarse bread.

  The tavern was crowded, packed with men drinking from huge, frothing tankards. The roar of drunken voices and laughter, mixed with the rank odor of sweat and a fug of wood smoke from the two hearths burning either end of the room, gave the tavern an oppressive atmosphere. Asher wasn’t keen to linger. His eyes burned, and his back and shoulders ached from his row across the lake. He just wanted to sleep.

  Unfortunately, the tavern-owner had no rooms free for the evening, and so Asher paid for his meal and left the tavern to continue his search for lodgings. Outdoors, the chill had deepened. It was a clear night, and the stars stretched overhead in a thick blanket against the inky void beyond.

  Asher drew his mantle close and headed farther up Broad Walk, hoping to find a room at the inn the tavern-owner had recommended.

  He had no luck there, nor at any of the other inns he tried. Each was full, as they’d been forced to billet Anthor soldiers, leaving no space for other travelers. Most of the inn-keepers were a surly, unfriendly lot, although Asher wasn’t surprised by their cool welcome. The occupation had put everyone on the edge.

  Eventually, Asher found a room above a butchery; one of the serving wenches in the last inn he’d tried had taken pity on him. “My brother rents out the attic room above his shop,” she’d murmured to him. “It’s on Eel Walk.”

  Eel Walk was in a rough part of town. It was a long wharf near the docks where brothels, dicing dens, and some of the seedier taverns crammed in. Unsurprisingly, there were plenty of Anthor soldiers here too, although the crowds of drunken dockworkers helped Asher pass by unnoticed.

  The butcher wasn’t happy to be disturbed. However, once he heard his sister had sent Asher, he reluctantly agreed to let him stay. Although he charged one silver talent a night—many times the going rate in town.

  Asher was too exhausted to haggle.

  Paying the butcher and bidding him goodnight, he made his way up to the attic. He carried a small oil lantern, which lit up the rickety wooden stairwell in a pale glow. The room was tiny and the ceiling so low that Asher had to stoop his head to avoid hitting it. Although cramped and sparsely furnished, with nothing more than a single pallet and a nightstand, it was clean. The linen on the bed looked fresh, and the room smelled of lye.

  Asher threw his pack on the pallet, hung up his cloak, and crossed to the dormer window. The shutters were open, letting in the icy night air. Asher inhaled the scent of woodsmoke, with underlying notes of rotting fish and urine. A shrill screech made him glance skyward then, and he saw Grim swooping down toward him, wings outstretched. Asher drew back from the window and gave the hawk space to land.

  Grim settled onto the ledge before he hunched, fixing Asher in a hard stare.

  “Not now,” Asher muttered.

  He turned his back on Grim, crossed to the sleeping pallet, and sat down with a groan. Right now he felt every one of his thirty-three winters. He pulled off his wet boots before looking up to find Grim still watching him. Asher scowled at the bird. “Don’t look at me like that … I don’t have the answers.”

  He got up and closed the shutters, shutting Grim outside.

  That damn bird thought it was his conscience, following him around and fixing him with accusing stares. He wondered if Grim knew why he was here; the hawk sometimes watched him as if it did.

  The trip south had given Asher plenty of time to think about the task Irana had given him.

  “Track down the princess, and when you do—kill her and her guardian.”

  Thornmere seemed the obvious place to begin his hunt. It was the biggest town for leagues and the nearest one to the Rithmar border. Tomorrow he’d start asking questions, although he’d need to be careful, for he imagined the King of Anthor was also looking for the girl.

  If he hasn’t found her already.

  Asher returned to the bed and lay back on the mattress with a groan, his gaze fixing upon the low beams above his head.

  Why did I agree to this? He wasn’t an assassin. He’d killed in self-defense, and in battle, but never in cold blood. I should have refused Irana.

  And yet the thought was almost unthinkable. One didn’t refuse an order from the High Enchanter of the Order of Light and Darkness. When he’d finished his apprenticeship at eighteen, and had the mark of the order tattooed upon the flesh of his right palm, he’d pledged his body and soul, and sworn obedience to the Order. He’d now lived as an enchanter for many years. A different life seemed unthinkable. No, this task needed to be done—he would just have to shut off his mind to it.

  “The girl’s dangerous.” Irana’s words haunted him, strengthening his resolve. “She has to die … there’s too much at risk.”

  A chill that had nothing to do with the winter’s night settled over Asher then, a sense of fatality. There would be no coming back from this. He knew this had to be done—just why did it have to be him? He could feel righteous about it—tell himself that he was doing the world a favor—but the truth was that if he ever found the princess, and succeeded in his mission, he’d carry her ghost with him forever.

  10

  The Woman in the Square

  “HAVE YOU SEEN two women traveling together? One is young, about fourteen, the other is older … in her twenties, or thirties maybe.”

  The inn-keeper favored Asher with an irritated look and dunked the tankard he was holding into a tub of soapy water. “Might have … but you’ll have to give me more to go on that that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Their looks for one thing. Are they mother and daughter?”

  Asher frowned. In the three days since he’d started searching for Princess Ninia and her guardian, Mira, he’d received that question
numerous times. Only he couldn’t answer it—he had no idea what Ninia and the Swallow looked like. Queen Rena’s missive had been short on physical details.

  “They aren’t related,” he replied after a beat. “The younger one is probably very sure of herself, well-spoken. The woman with her is likely to be protective of her.”

  The inn-keeper quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t sound that sure.”

  Asher clenched his jaw. “Have you seen two women fitting that description?”

  The inn-keeper shook his head. “No … I had a mother and daughter stay two nights ago, but the girl was nearer eighteen I’d say. Fought like cats they did.” The man picked up another dirty tankard and started to wash it. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  Asher shook his head. “No … thank you all the same.”

  Moments later he emerged into the morning, blinking in the brightness after the gloom inside the inn. It was nearing noon. A chill wind buffeted down Perch Walk—a wide thoroughfare that led off Broad Walk—gusting in off the lake.

  Asher bent his head against the wind and headed left. This wasn’t working. He was going around in circles. Asking questions made people suspicious, and he’d had to exit a number of establishments quickly upon realizing he couldn't enquire without being overheard by Anthor soldiers. You couldn't go two paces in this town without seeing one of the bastards.

  Reaching Broad Walk, Asher cut right and made his way toward the southern end of Thornmere. The walkway widened further still, the closer he got to the end of the pier. Up ahead he spied the great stone arch that led the way out of town, and just beyond he saw the black finger of Thornmere’s Altar of Umbra. Every settlement, no matter how small, in The Four Kingdoms of Serran had one. Made of black volcanic glass, the obelisks had been erected during the reign of the Shadow King. Five centuries after his fall, no one had ever been able to tear them down. Valgarth had used a powerful enchantment to cement them to the earth.

  Anthor soldiers flanked the archway, paying no attention to the Altar. Asher noted the way the soldiers were interrogating anyone coming in and out of the town. He’d made the right decision to slip in secretly.

  On the town side of the arch, there was a daily market taking place. A cold wind howled across the walk, buffeting the stalls that huddled in its center. The stalls formed two long rows, their hide awnings flapping. Underneath were piles of fruit and vegetables, as well as dried meats, cheeses, and preserves. Vendors huddled in their coats, cheeks chapped and noses red. The wind this morning felt as if it blew down from the Shadefells themselves; it was raw, reminding them all that winter still held Thûn in its grip.

  Asher stopped at the market and bought himself a buckwheat wrap filled with fried eel. He’d been up since daybreak and frustration had given him an appetite. Standing next to the stall, he ate slowly, his gaze scanning the crowd.

  There were plenty of women amongst the shoppers, but they all looked local. None fitted the image Asher had in his mind of the princess and her protector.

  They could be anywhere by now.

  As he surveyed the crowd, the tattoo of hoof beats beyond the arch drew Asher’s eye. He looked up to see a company of riders approaching up the causeway. The flutter of red warned him that it was yet another group of Anthor soldiers.

  As if this town didn’t have enough of them.

  This company was different though—the men at the front carried standards and all rode magnificent destriers. The horsemen thundered onto Broad Walk, the shod hooves of their warhorses echoing over the wood. The crowd of townsfolk parted to admit the company, pushing back against the stalls to let the riders through.

  Asher watched them pass, his gaze picking out a man riding directly behind the banner men. Broad-shouldered and tall with short black hair and a handsome—if grim—face, the soldier wore a gleaming, black breast plate. Golden clasps held his long crimson cape to his shoulders. A shrewd, dark gaze swept over the crowd as he rode. Asher felt a tickle of recognition.

  Have I seen him before? Surely not.

  Then the soldier was past, and the moment was gone.

  The crowd flowed back, filling the space between the stalls once more. Locals glanced after the departing horsemen. Many of their expressions were cold or hostile. A few feet away an elderly man swore and spat on the ground.

  Asher finished eating and wiped his hands on his cloak. He was about to move on when a woman on the other side of the market caught his eye.

  Cloaked and hooded, her face partially obscured by the cowl of her cloak, she was talking to a crone selling fresh cheeses.

  Another gust of wind raced across the walk—and this one tore the woman’s hood back off her face. She had long black hair, a shade one rarely saw this far north, but it was her eyes he really noticed. Large, slightly slanted, and fringed in dark lashes, they were grey-blue. Dark, finely arched eyebrows slanted up from them, giving her an intense look. The rest of her features—a stubborn jaw, straight nose, and full lips—were too strong to make this woman a classic beauty. Yet she was striking.

  An instant later the woman reached back and yanked her hood into place. Yet as she did, Asher saw the look of panic that flitted across her face. And then—even from yards away—she must have felt the weight of his stare.

  Her gaze swiveled and met his over the busy crowd of shoppers and vendors going about their business. She froze.

  The woman tore her gaze away and said something to the crone who’d been chattering away to her, oblivious. Then she turned and fled into the crowd.

  A heartbeat later, Asher was after her.

  She moved with the fluidity of a fox across the busy walk. Despite his height, Asher was lithe and quick on his feet—yet he almost lost her in the crowd. Up ahead he saw a flash of black from her cloak as she disappeared up Broad Walk. A moment later she turned onto one of the many walks leading off the thoroughfare.

  Asher broke into a run. He hadn’t imagined the panic on her face earlier—this woman wanted to remain inconspicuous. She could be the Swallow he was looking for.

  He entered Minnow Walk and spotted his quarry up ahead. She was walking briskly, her cloak flapping behind her. He saw she was dressed in leather breeches and boots, and as the wind raced down the narrow walk and snagged at her cloak, making it billow behind her, he saw that she carried a sword at her side.

  His pulse quickened. This must be her.

  She glanced over her shoulder then, her features shadowed by her hood. The sight of him in pursuit made her break into a run, and then she turned right down a side-alley.

  Asher lengthened his stride. She’d increased her speed, her feet flying over the pitted planks. This alley was foul; someone had just emptied their chamber pot out the window. The walk and walls were splattered with excrement. The stench made Asher’s gorge rise. His boots slipped on something, and he nearly went over. Yet he managed to right himself and plow on. And all the while he kept his gaze fixed upon the woman who sprinted away from him.

  Shadows, she’s fast.

  At the end of the alley, a swing-bridge linked this wharf with the next one. The woman crossed it in long strides. By the time Asher was halfway across, she had disappeared into another alley up ahead.

  Asher followed, crossing a walkway and entering an alley so narrow he could have reached out and touched the walls either side. A wall reared up before him, and he drew to an abrupt halt. He'd run into a dead end, and the woman had disappeared.

  He stepped forward a few paces and glanced around, frowning. Then he looked up at the blue sky filled with fast moving clouds above. There were no doorways or windows in this alley, just a high timber palisade at one end.

  Where did she go?

  Asher turned around, planning to retrace his steps, and found himself facing a cloaked and hooded figure.

  It took barely an instant to realize that she'd somehow managed to get behind him. Then she struck out, hitting him hard in the solar plexus.

  The force of her punch
knocked Asher back against the wall. A heartbeat later she had a cold blade pressed to his throat.

  The woman was shorter than him and had to look up to meet his gaze, but she didn’t appear remotely cowed by his greater size or strength. She pressed the blade close to his windpipe. Her hood had fallen back, her dark hair whipping around her, and her eyes were narrowed and dangerous.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice a low growl.

  Asher held her gaze and inhaled slowly and carefully. She had a murderous glint in her eye.

  “To speak to you,” he wheezed, still recovering from her punch. “I'm a friend.”

  Liar. If the woman knew what was good for her, she’d end him now.

  Her mouth twisted, and the pressure on his throat increased. Asher felt a sting as the tip of the blade dug into his flesh.

  “Try another answer.”

  He sucked in another breath. “My name’s Asher,” he said finally. “I’m from Rithmar. I’ve been sent to find you and Ninia … to help you get safely across the border.”

  More lies—these ones even bolder than the last.

  She stared at him, her gaze widening. A moment later the pressure on his neck eased slightly. “Who sent you?”

  “King Nathan of Rithmar.”

  “And how do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  “You don’t.”

  She frowned. “Give me proof … details. How did the king learn about this?”

  Asher held her gaze. Up close, her skin was smooth and lightly tanned. She smelled faintly of jasmine.

  “Queen Rena sent a message via goshawk,” he replied. “She informed us that you and Princess Ninia would be traveling north. We've been waiting for you for months. So when you didn't appear … someone had to travel south to find you.”

  Mira of the Swallow Guard regarded him coolly. “And who are you? One of the king's men?”

  Asher gave a slow smile. “Not exactly.”

  His response caught her off guard, and she slackened the pressure of the blade at his throat a fraction further.