Creatures whose heightened senses should have given them an edge over human quarry.
Lady Verrikose had flaunted her gift as if it made her a goddess, unbecomingly full of herself, and had been none too pleased when Despiris edged into her territory as the king’s favored pet.
While Despiris couldn’t say for sure since she hadn’t yielded anything yet, she was willing to bet that if it came down to which one of them was truly indispensable, her intimate knowledge of the Shadowmaster would win out over the noblewoman’s beastly hunting party.
Which, Despiris was keen to point out, hadn’t exactly yielded anything yet either. Except capturing Despiris. So, ironically, Lady Verrikose had really rather arranged her own fall from favoritism, catching her own replacement. Though it would seem that as much as the beastress coveted the prized position of king’s pet, her chief concern had become catching the Master of the Shadows by any means necessary.
As became the chief concern of any who set their sights on him. She’d fallen prey to the obsession, just like the rest of them. Caught in his web more thoroughly than he would ever be caught in theirs.
Unless.
Unless I have anything to say about it.
Unless I follow this betrayal through to its end.
But in the same way Lady Verrikose had arranged her own demotion, so had the Master of the Shadows arranged his own downfall. It could not really be called ‘betrayal’ on her part when her master, a trickster at heart, had charged her with playing any game she could get her hands on. Turning the tables and challenging him was certainly her idea of the greatest game of all time, and she imagined he would have to agree.
Still, the bittersweet taste of it haunted her conscience in the quiet moments when there was nothing but her own thoughts to occupy the world. A taste she would force down her throat, swallowing like medicine – a necessary evil – so she could blaze on with her bold stab at greatness. At a legacy of her own.
A legacy she would not feel worthy of if she didn’t get to the bottom of how her latest mission had been commandeered from her. And ensure it didn’t happen again.
King Isavor turned from the window to greet Despiris, and she disregarded the noblewoman, not sure why she was present in the first place. This matter did not concern her. Suspiciously absent was Lord Mosscrow, the king’s actual advisor.
“Good morning, Lady Despiris.” Isavor nodded, clasping his hands behind his back to address her.
Despiris nodded briefly in turn. “Your Majesty.” She did not bow, and was thankful the king never insisted on it, for she suspected they both secretly knew she worshiped the Master of the Shadows still. As she always had and probably always would.
“Refreshed from your rigorous journey, I hope?”
“Quite,” she lied, wanting to cut quickly to the troubling heart of the matter. She would come right out with it herself, mentioning perhaps that it would have been a much more restful night if she’d put to bed the issue of this ‘other informant’ that showed her up, but she squirmed inside at the thought of highlighting her own second-rate performance.
Lady Verrikose, as it turned out, had no such qualms about bringing it up. “A shame you put yourself through the wringer for naught, poor dear. Given the mission was deftly fulfilled by another. Although, to be fair, I’m not certain he would have gone if you hadn’t. Who knew the competitive spirit between the Shadowmaster and his pupil would prove to work in our favor in more ways than one?”
And there it was. Confirmation to the sneaking suspicion that had taken root in Despiris’s mind the night prior.
The king had not sent a secondary spy to Tricova as some test to see who would complete the mission faster. No. The Master of the Shadows had sent himself, to show her up. To humiliate her.
And what did she expect? She had challenged him, after all. Whether her betrayal had cut him deep and he was lashing out, or merely responding to her challenge with a characteristic, haughty counter-move to prove who was really still in charge, she couldn’t say. It mattered little. Either way, he had nimbly toppled her pedestal from underneath her, leaving her mortified and reeling.
For a moment she stood there grappling with her embarrassment. Admittedly a little stung that her master would so readily rob her of her respectability. And yet, it was precisely the sort of thing she should have expected.
Again.
If she didn’t want to be constantly shown up and caught off guard, she was going to have to do better. Step up her game.
She could admit she’d been a fool for not realizing they would be in the thick of it, right from the start.
“We received a letter, you see,” Lady Verrikose went on when Despiris had no immediate response, as if she still needed the matter explained. “A letter from your former master, yesterday morning. Graciously relating the details of the Tricovan conspiracy. Intel we naturally questioned, of course, because of the source, but it allowed us the chance to prepare our defenses while waiting for confirmation from our…trusted agent.”
The way she hesitated made it clear she didn’t suppose Despiris’s account was any more credible than Clevwrith’s, but it wasn’t that which Despiris found most aggravating about her choice of words. It was the ‘we’ and the ‘us’ she kept throwing around, as if her precariously-glorified position merited her the honor of having such a letter addressed to both the king and her. The entitlement was grating. All the more so because the king tolerated it, as if he couldn’t see the noblewoman was trying to weasel her way into an elevated position alongside him.
He was smarter than that, Despiris knew, so she could only assume he was humoring the woman’s antics for a reason. Hopefully one other than that he found her base womanly charms alluring. She was undeniably desirable.
Isavor cleared his throat. “The letter is on the table for you to review.”
Despiris’s gaze flicked to him, then back to the table where Lady Verrikose took her tea. The noblewoman sipped demurely from her cup as Despiris approached the table. The scroll in question lay on the tabletop beside an empty cup and saucer, edges curling over a glittering geode paper weight.
“Tea?” Lady Verrikose offered, setting her cup down and reaching for the teapot.
Despiris spared her a dry glance, less than enthused by the idea of having to sit at the table trading pleasantries with the beastress. “No. Thank you.” Reaching for the letter, she set the paper weight aside and drew the scroll closer to her face. She scanned the letter thoroughly, her inspection punctuated by annoying slurps of tea. “Yes,” she confirmed when she was finished. “This is accurate.” As irritated as she was, she had to resist running her fingers over the ink on the page, Clevwrith’s handwriting familiar and distractingly nostalgic. She swallowed the pang it elicited within her, clinging to her annoyance. She couldn’t afford to be sentimental.
Isavor nodded toward a guard standing quietly by a statue of a giant heron. “Execute the plan we discussed.” Taking his orders, the guard exited the solarium. “Any further pertinent details, omitted from this account?”
“No.” A dry edge laced her voice. “That about covers it.”
“Do not be disheartened, dear Despiris,” Lady Verrikose said, mock encouraging. “After all, this could have gone very differently. Our beloved Shadowmaster could have taken the opportunity to side with the Tricovans. Could have revealed the treacherous Cerf Dainean spy in their midst. Taken out our secret weapon singlehandedly and sought asylum from our hunt in Tricova. If he were acting purely strategically, I believe he would have. Which leaves us with a vital shard of information. He cares for you. And you can use that against him.” Her smile was just a bit too satisfied, as if knowing the distress it would cause Despiris to do so.
“Perhaps, Lady Verrikose,” King Isavor allowed, but did not give away whether he thought that to be an accurate assessment. “But the Shadowmaster is not one to take asylum. Such would be admitting he needs it. Admitting he is afraid of us. It would be entirely out of character. I
think we can just as safely assume he is enjoying this, and wishes to prolong the fun.”
Lady Verrikose’s smile shrank, and she flicked an imaginary speck of dust off the table, wiping her lacy digits on her napkin. “Still. I think it a safe bet to assume some level of affection for the sole being he’s nurtured, and only obvious to exploit that weakness. No?” Quirking a brow at Despiris, she waited for the spywoman to deny it as a valid tactic.
In that moment, observing the cruel, keen spark in the noblewoman’s eye, Despiris had a premonition of a certain gargoyle coming after her again, in spite of her ‘ally’ status to the woman who commanded the beast, simply to force a scenario that preyed upon Clevwrith’s affections for her. She wouldn’t put it past Lady Verrikose for an instant to arrange such treachery. If I don’t bait Clevwrith, she will.
“Of course, there is an amount of affection I might exploit,” she replied emotionlessly, trying to give the impression she was not laboring to hide that tidbit, and therefore that it was not some great epiphany she hadn’t already thought of. “But the king is right. The Shadowmaster’s affections are owned by ‘the game’, over a being he raised as little more than a pawn. I was a tool, my lady, to cushion his legacy.”
“Well. Then let’s all hope you do him proud, and find a way to escape his shadow. Before he grows bored and disappointed and realizes the best man to cushion his legacy is himself, and to hell with his pawn and her silly games.”
King Isavor stepped away from the sun-drenched window, moving toward a lavish throne-like bench where a steaming mug awaited him on the armrest. “I am certain Lady Despiris has no intention of languishing long in this shadow you speak of. And even if she were to find herself lingering there, let us not forget – the shadows are where she is accustomed to operating. I am sure she will find her footing.” He lowered himself with great decorum onto the throne-bench, in what Despiris couldn’t help but feel was a subtle display of authority in order to take back control of the conversation, before Lady Verrikose ran away with her presumptuous sentiments.
Despiris was grateful he didn’t press her about the Shadowmaster’s affections. After all, the first time she found herself caught by the king’s men and brought before Isavor to explain herself, she had taken pains to defend the Shadowmaster’s honor and convince Isavor he in fact had a heart, and was not merely the arrogant fiend everyone took him to be. Isavor could easily return to that private exchange, and press Lady Verrikose’s agenda upon her. But as many times before, he played his cards close to his chest, sharing with no single person all that he knew.
She had to wonder if it would come up later, in private. For surely he wished for her to employ everything at her disposal?
Do you not intend to employ everything at your disposal?
The question left her startled. For if she intended to win, she would be remiss not to acknowledge the value in exploiting Clevwrith’s affection. She would be a fool to resist anything that might award her an edge. And there was no point going this far, already betraying Clevwrith, if she had no intention of taking it all the way.
Besides, he clearly had no issue with humiliating her. He was not going easy.
“Fair enough,” Lady Verrikose conceded, albeit with probationary grace. “Pray tell, then, what genius occurs to you as you stand there adapting before our very eyes? I can only presume his Majesty’s confidence is not ill-placed? You should have what, then – two, perhaps three, new counter-moves dreamed up already?”
Could the lady get any more aggravating? The last thing Despiris felt like doing was letting her be privy to the plan. She would take almost as much pleasure in excluding Lady Verrikose from the process as she would actually besting Clevwrith. “Forgive me, your Majesty,” she addressed the king instead of responding to the noblewoman. “Should we not wait until Lord Mosscrow is present before discussing the matter?”
She was little more eager to include that meddling vulture of a man than she was the insufferable beastress, but if it meant taking Lady Verrikose down a peg, she would elevate Mosscrow’s rank all day.
“Mm,” replied the king. “I thought we might not trouble him with this particular development. He is sensitive about the matter, and might become…touchy at the implication he contributed to the issue of the kingdom’s vulnerability. I should not wish him to feel responsible, as all final decisions were made by me. Such weight is a weight for the king. Not his advisors.”
Either he was indeed being noble, or he was worried that same ‘sensitivity’ he mentioned would result in Mosscrow going into a fresh tailspin of rash, desperate counter-measures. It would be just like him to declare they must double their efforts again, because the Shadowmaster had really gone too far this time. It was what had gotten them into this international debacle to begin with. ‘More than ever,’ Despris could hear him proclaiming, ‘we cannot afford to leave him out there. The entire kingdom depends on it!’
Isavor was wise to leave him out of this meeting. Though Despiris could not imagine Crow would react much more favorably when he learned later he had been purposefully excluded.
In any case, it gave her the out she was looking for. The excuse to play her own cards close to her chest. “In that case, I believe you all have been troubled enough by this issue. Feel free to move all excess infantry to the border, where they might actually do some good. I will catch the Master of the Shadows myself.”
3
Pawn for Pegasus
“Welcome to the game. Rules are forbidden.” – Perhaps the singular most dangerous thing the Master of the Shadows had ever said to his apprentice.
*
Fairoway boasted the average societal hierarchy. It had its royals, nobles, and successful businessmen – its middle-class, peasants, and those considered all but feral creatures scavenging even below the peasants in the streets. It had its pedestals and its potholes. A spot for everyone. You had a tower, or a manor, or townhouse, or a humble abode, or a shack, or a gutter.
But there was one who did not conform to such unimaginative disjuncture. One who could pass as royal or rascal, courtier or creature, who trespassed in manors as naturally as if he’d personally curated the paintings on the wall and embraced the grit of the streets as a primal beast embraces the wilds. All was his playground, the many tiers merely different layers. The capital was a chess board, and he – all the pieces on the board. And why not? Different forms they might take, but they were all molded of the same stuff underneath.
If only people realized they didn’t have to be pawns, just because that was the mold society had pressed them into. Spirit was shapeless. Boundless.
Despiris had realized this. Embraced it. Pushed against the casing of her natural-born shape – which already had been a malleable, fluid thing thanks to his tutelage – to evolve into something even Clevwrith had not anticipated.
One should be careful teaching a caterpillar to transform into a butterfly – lest she apply herself, and aspire instead to become a behemoth.
He’d created a monster, as they said.
His beautiful, terrifying butterfly.
A titillated grin crooked Clevwrith’s lips, thinking of the force she had become. He couldn’t help it. A margin of betrayal might yawn, secretly stung, in the depths of his being, but in the end it was a game. You didn’t take it personally when your opponent surprised you on the chess board. You didn’t curl into yourself, heartbroken, and whisper across the checkered wasteland of what was once your beloved common ground, What have you done?
No. You rose to the occasion. You reached for a pawn, switched it with sleight of hand for a trick up your sleeve. Drew back to watch your opponent’s surprise and delight when she saw in place of a pawn, a figurine of a dragon now graced the board. Then she would switch her own pawn for a pegasus. And instead of moving square to square in halting, segmented succession, the pieces would embrace the board for what it really was – a dance floor.
And they would dance.
A dizz
ying whirl of skirts and shadows, a tangle of manners and mayhem – of ghosts and angels.
A clash of jewels and steel.
This was what she wanted. So he would give it to her.
A rebellious pang rose up from within him, but he caught his breath, suspending it before it could reach his heart. For a long minute he held that breath, starving out the treacherous feeling, suffocating it until it withered and sank away, back to the depths a drowned shred.
This wasn’t personal. It was business. And as for the loneliness that cared not for semantics, well… He supposed he should be thankful that Des’s betrayal had still left them fatefully interwoven. Arch enemies would see much of one another.
The Master of the Shadows was one to count his blessings.
And it wouldn’t be long now, he thought, before she showed her face in his territory. It wouldn’t be long before she became exasperated by the pathetic attempts of the lesser hounds fumbling after his scent. Before she retaliated against the humiliation he had caused her with that hijacked Tricovan affair.
She would show her face if for no other reason than that this was her game they were playing. And she was not a hands-off kind of player.
The initial betrayal had been a symbolic challenge. But she would challenge him personally, face to face, or else what had been the point of all this intrigue pitting master and apprentice against one another?
She was coming. He need not have provoked her, but he could admit he was anxious to see her again. To plunge into the fray of her intoxicating treachery. To tangle with those skirts and discover what weapons she hid within.
Come to me, he enticed. For he was ready.
Ready and waiting.
4
Cobwebs and Catacombs
“There is nothing you can’t do. Easily,” the Master of the Shadows had once told her – and she believed him, which was why she dared challenge him.
*
No more waiting, Despiris decreed, yanking tight the laces of her boot. No more distractions. No more senseless dithering or idle preoccupations. No. More. Waiting.
Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2) Page 3
