Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2)

by Harper Alexander

  He stood behind her in the aisle, unnoticed for some amount of time. Eventually he spoke, alerting her to his presence. “What can I say, Des?”

  A margin of her numbness crumbling, she turned her haunted eyes to him, noticing he was the only one there. He’d dismissed the guards to speak to her privately.

  His gaze moved past her to Clevwrith. “So this is the Master of the Shadows. Finally in our grasp, and he’s…” He trailed off, leaving the sentiment hanging. He seemed to have no heart to continue, sorry he’d brought it up. He gazed into the cell for a long time, looking worn and regretful. Looking so sorry.

  After what felt like an eternity, he spoke again. “It pains me to see you here, Des. You left me no choice, however. You nearly killed one of my men.”

  An unexpected spark of hope fizzled in the all-consuming darkness that haunted her. “He’s alive?”

  “Just. We’re hopeful he will recover.”

  She’d thought he was dead. She’d thought she’d killed a man. He’s alive! It was a brief, small flutter of redemption, and then her dire circumstances rushed back in to crush her spirit. She nodded bleakly, fighting back tears. “Good. That’s good.”

  Isavor frowned. “I would ask you why…” Once again, his attention strayed to the comatose form she guarded, considering the man that had caused so much consternation. After a moment, his face softened. “But I do believe I understand.”

  Did he? Did he really understand?

  Perhaps he did. Perhaps with the unfathomable legendary figure reduced to a shell before him and Despiris’s rash, instinctive actions, the riddle unraveled into a simple equation of humanity. Of the conflict of the heart.

  Tears threatened so hard that Despiris trembled, trying to keep it all in.

  The king took a moment just to look at her, eyes hurting for her. “I’m sorry, Despiris.”

  In spite of her efforts, the tears brimmed over, tracking quickly down her cheeks.

  “I cannot free you,” Isavor lamented, but he had pulled himself together, drawing himself up once again as the austere king, rather than a sympathetic friend. “I will, however, arrange for your companion to be treated.”

  Her tears stopped abruptly, yet it was a flutter of horror that she felt at his words. The conflict raged again within her – her natural instinct to save Clevwrith, but a deeper enlightenment sensitive to his wishes.

  “Cure him only so he wallows in his doom, that he might spend every waking moment suffering, resenting his fate? I don’t suppose you can understand how unbearable that would be for him.”

  “Then let that torment be his punishment. Or do you forget, my lady, that there are crimes he must pay for?”

  It was startlingly cold, coming from the king – from the man who had treated her only kindly. But as she searched his hardened countenance, she had to wonder – was it in fact a kindness hidden within calculated justice? For even if it was not what Clevwrith wished, the king would still be offering him the only chance anyone could.

  Only if Clevwrith was alive was there any hope of escape.

  It seemed such a far-fetched, hopeless possibility given the increase in security, but that didn’t mean that at some point, be it next week or five years in the future, someone wouldn’t slip up and provide a window of opportunity.

  Could that unlikely spark of hope be enough? Enough that it was worth reviving Clevwrith to languish at length in this hovel of despair?

  She could only hope he would find the will to survive something he considered worse than death. Something that he might liken to hell, but in its most deceitful form. Not fiery, or hot, or even painful, but cold and dark, an ambient trickster masquerading as kin to his oldest friend the Night. Unlike the night, of course, it didn’t embrace him. It held him captive instead, colder and darker – night’s evil twin.

  And instead of stretching on and on, miles and miles of the ceaseless wasteland one might attribute to Hell, it didn’t even allow him that paltry freedom – for instead of endlessness, it had walls.

  Could she really subject him to that?

  Of course, she wasn’t being given a choice. And, secretly, that offered a tinge of relief.

  Because, deep down, she did have hope. And at least this way, Clevwrith couldn’t resent her for saving him.

  32

  Unexpected Deliverance

  “Handle yourself well in everyone’s company, and you will find allies in the least likely of places, friends with the least likely of faces.” – A rule of Nobility’s Etiquette

  *

  The promised cure was sent straightaway to the dungeon and promptly administered. At first, Clevwrith showed no response, remaining in a comatose state for a full day and night. Despiris waited by his side, not sleeping, praying he had not been too far gone before they’d treated him.

  Finally, he stirred, eyes fluttering open.

  Relieved and apprehensive at once, Despiris offered an uncertain smile. “Hi, Clev,” she said, and regardless of her conflicted feelings, it was pure warmth that filled her voice. A few tears slipped from her eyes. One would have thought she’d be fresh out of tears by then. She had done nothing but cry lately, oceans of pain.

  Clevwrith turned his head slowly, taking in his surroundings with a weak, dazed comprehension.

  Despiris’s heart sank, worried how he would take it. “I’m sorry, Clevwrith,” she whispered. “I couldn’t…” Couldn’t what? She trailed off as Clevwrith’s silent eyes returned to her.

  Ever so slowly, the process painstaking and difficult, Clevwrith propped himself up on a quivering elbow and reached for her. His weak fingers grasped the nape of her neck, pulling her gently down to kiss him. The despair in his eyes confirmed the prison would haunt him – it might even kill him – but she was forgiven.

  Spent, Clevwrith laid himself to rest again. Despiris stayed with him, curling up by his side and lacing her fingers into his to lend him strength for the ordeal ahead.

  *

  Lord Mosscrow had been to see the prisoners, just like most everyone else in the palace had. He was surprised, actually, that not everyone in existence – palace resident or otherwise – had come to gape at the novelty in the king’s dungeon.

  Isavor had been careful, though – for some reason – to take care that word of the Shadowmaster’s capture did not get out. He claimed he didn’t want everyone in existence showing up at his doorstep chomping at the bit to invade his prison and harass his inmates. Secretly, Mosscrow thought the king just wanted to make incarceration as easy on the Lady Despiris and her master as possible. The monarch had always had a soft spot for her, and had never been overly interested in bringing down the Shadowmaster to begin with.

  Lady Verrikose, of course, was most distraught by the king’s hush-hush approach to the matter. She wanted nothing more than to flaunt their victory, shout it from the rooftops.

  And while Lord Mosscrow sympathized with her, or made a show of it anyway – for he’d become her chief supporter, or liked to think so – he was surprised to find he did not in fact share her frustration.

  It was a troubling plot twist, to say the least. He should be ecstatic with glee and just as eager to sensationalize their triumph and declare the Shadowhunters heroes of their era. It had been him, after all, who had first obsessed over catching the legend. He hadn’t just wanted to catch him, either. He’d wanted to ruin him.

  Yet now…well, just like that, it was all over. And all he had to gloat over was a girl whom he had almost come to like, and a half-dead, sorry excuse for a fiend who looked just like any other man. Shorter than Crow would have guessed him. Unimpressive. Not nearly as dark and daunting as the legends said.

  If Crow was being honest with himself, he had never envisioned it like this, in the end. He had always imagined the Spylord endeavoring feverishly to escape, all his efforts in vain, until he finally collapsed in despair and admitted defeat to Crow’s face.

  The Spylord, however, was already defeated. And it hadn’t
been any of Crow’s doing. It hadn’t been anyone’s doing. The fiend had continued to outrun and outsmart his adversaries at every turn, until, by no fault of his, he breathed in a speck of plague on the wind. And now the man who had been such a formidable opponent for so long was reduced to a pitiful party-pooper who could not withstand fate any more than his peers.

  He wouldn’t even give Crow the pleasure of trying to escape. Wouldn’t even move a muscle. He just lay there, dismal and disappointing.

  This was turning out to be not nearly as much fun as Crow had anticipated. It was all rather anticlimactic.

  As for the Lady Despiris…he was hard-pressed to admit it to himself, for he’d long been comfortable in his habits of apathy and selfishness, but there was a part of him that actually felt bad for her.

  I’m going soft in my old age, he mused with a scowl, laboring to quench the inkling of compassion that sought to corrupt his mind. He tried to reason with himself: She’s a despicable criminal. A vile, two-faced human being. And she’s threatened you one time too many. You don’t like her! In fact, you despise her! You should be delighted to watch her rot slowly away in a cell!

  Instead, the thought left a strange, sour taste in his mouth. He found himself wanting to cringe. A twinge of guilt nagged at him, like some demonic butterfly nudging its way out of a cocoon in his gut to possess him with delicate sensibilities.

  I will not be converted to some sensitive sap! Some pathetic pansy! I am not compassionate. I am proud, self-centered, menacing and murderous. And I will die happy because of it, he insisted, but it sounded an awful lot like trying to convince himself. I will die very happy.

  And with that, he turned right around in the grand hallway he’d been pacing to nowhere for the past hour and headed straight back to the place he’d secretly been avoiding, realizing it was no use.

  I can’t believe this. I really can’t believe this. I will never, he swore, never forgive myself for this…

  *

  Despiris glanced up as a familiar voice dismissed the guards and a cloaked figure glided into view. More slowly, Clevwrith followed her gaze – alert, now, but weary yet.

  The Lord Advisor came to stand in front of the cell, mumbling incoherently to himself right up until he addressed the prisoners. “Well, you’re a disappointing sight for eager eyes, aren’t you?” he criticized Clevwrith. “You’re supposed to be great, this grand, legendary fiend, conjuring nightmares out of thin air and spewing spells of darkness out of your arse. You are supposed to be sensational. And yet, I’d be generous to call you ‘pitiful’. You are no prize at all.”

  His insults might have provoked a reaction, if they had not left the Shadhi more stunned than offended. And so, blinking in uncertainty at the unexpected tirade, they said nothing.

  “You’re no fun,” Crow muttered. “No fun at all. Anticlimactic at best. And you, you miserable, wretched girl, wailing so long and so loud that we’re facing a cotton shortage throughout the kingdom because half of Fairoway has taken to stuffing cotton in their ears. You’ll flood the palace with your fool tears.”

  Despiris watched him warily, more bewildered by the second, because in complete contradiction to everything she’d ever known about the Lord Advisor, he was inserting a key into the lock of the Shadowmaster’s cell, grumbling again about how he would never let himself hear the end of this.

  Dumbstruck, she gaped. What did he think he was doing?

  Crow continued his tirade: “I was supposed to feel like I’d done the impossible, caught an invincible man. Instead, I feel as though I found a bug squished on the bottom of my boot and strung it up alongside the catches of the day like an idiot. I am embarrassed, not proud. My life’s work, amounting to this. You’ve humiliated me, not vindicated me. I can’t stand the disappointing, nauseating sight of the both of you,” he spat, swinging the cell door wide, “so do us all a favor and make your sorry selves scarce.”

  When neither Shadhi moved a muscle, not trusting the uncharacteristic turn of events, Crow’s brows smashed together in a hideous, intimidating scowl.

  “Out!” he insisted. “Get out! Get out of my sight, before I change my mind!”

  Hesitant with disbelief, Despiris nevertheless climbed to her feet, her muscles coiling with the instinct to flee through the open door. “But…” she said, surprising even herself by uttering something that sounded like it might be an objection. “You will be punished yourself for this sabotage.”

  Mosscrow was already turning to leave, unable to watch his own treachery unfold. “Ha!” he guffawed over his shoulder. “I have been beating my head against a wall and going behind his Majesty’s back to catch you both from day one. Do you really think anyone will ever believe I went behind his back to set you free? Ludicrous.” His voice was fading into the dungeon shadows. “Everyone will assume you escaped, as you always have and always will. Why prolong the inevitable? You were more fun out there anyway. So get back out there where you two belong, and do something entertaining. For I tire of the crickets chirping throughout the kingdom, and I’d hate to die bored out of my wits.”

  33

  Rampage of Roses

  “Always leave your signature,” SFH masters drilled their apprentices. “You will be recognized. You will be remembered. It is the first step toward becoming legendary.”

  *

  Despite Crow’s warning to make themselves scarce as quickly as possible, the Shadhi could not in good conscience vacate the palace without a few finishing touches.

  Given Clevwrith’s wan state, Despiris stashed him in a closet with orders not to move from that spot before slinking off to leave their mark. Snipping some white roses from the king’s solarium, she twirled the flower heads through the soot of a chambermaid’s fireplace and then breezed through the palace to distribute the roses. She left them in windowsills and by breakfast plates, under pillows and in doorways – anywhere there was a coy niche to tuck them. One in particular, she left tastefully in a vase on Mosscrow’s desk, hoping he would take it as more of a thank-you than a gloat.

  She was just about to go retrieve Clevwrith when the itch to leave just a little bit more of an exhibit for one last recipient nagged at her. Chewing her lip in thought, she struck off with a grin toward Lady Verrikose’s chambers.

  Slitting open one of the noblewoman’s feather pillows, she pilfered a few tufts to fasten like wings to the stalk of her last rose. Then she rummaged through the woman’s wardrobe and selected her finest white dress, snagging a thread and unraveling half the gown for its thread.

  She strung the thread like a web in the noblewoman’s window, weaving a delicate masterpiece. Securing the tufted rose at the center, she stood back and admired her work, finding particular satisfaction in the image of the ravaged dress bodice – all that was left of the garment – sagging from the display like pretty carnage on a battlefield.

  Smugly, she ghosted from the room.

  She was halfway back to Clevwrith’s alcove when she noticed the symbol hanging from one of the hall’s grand chandeliers. The same signature she had just left for Lady Verrikose, but she’d had nothing to do with this one. The rose looked as if it had been folded from paper, edges singed by a brief flame, and the feathers were large and looked suspiciously like they might have come from one of Ophelious’ beasts. The web was strung out of an elegant swath of black netting that might have been a noblewoman’s shawl.

  Startled, Despiris paused to take in the spectacle, then shook her head in amusement at the prospect that Clevwrith was already up and around and back to playing with fire. Stalking back to the cubby where she’d left him, she yanked open the closet door and treated him to a disapproving glare.

  “I thought I told you to stay put.”

  He gazed innocently out at her, not looking as though he had moved a muscle. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  She eyed his fingers, stained with traces of soot. Noting the direction of her gaze, Clevwrith made quick fists to hide the evidenc
e, eyes gleaming with mischief.

  In the end, she was just happy he was making such a fast recovery. When they’d left the dungeon, he’d had his arm slung over her shoulders for support.

  “Well, then I suppose Lord Mosscrow really has come over to our side,” she remarked, “going as far as to leave the signature of his sworn enemy around the palace for us, that it might once again ignite offense and provoke the chase.”

  Clevwrith made a wry expression to substitute a shrug. “He did say he’d hate to die of boredom.”

  “Something it would seem you two have in common.”

  Clevwrith pulled himself up from the floor of the closet, and despite his evident shenanigans, Despiris couldn’t help but notice he still used the wall for support. “Come on, Des,” he said. “Stuff me in a closet and tell me to sit and stay while you go and have all the fun? That’s cruel.”

  “We’ve already established that both of us are cruel,” replied Despiris.

  Sidling closer, Clevwrith leaned against the doorframe, gazing warmly down at her. “An unfortunate detour of character. Now let’s get off somewhere and compensate each other for the wrongdoings that ever made us think that way of one another.”

  Teasingly, Despiris brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his collar, resting her hands on his chest. “Why wait until we’ve made our escape? I thought you prided yourself in your powers of stealth. Can’t we be discreet?”

  A wicked gleam lit his eye. “Why, Des – you really have become liberated.”

  She pulled herself closer to him, keeping a tantalizing margin of space between them. “We are the kings of mischief, are we not? Mischief comes in many forms.”

  “Indeed,” he agreed keenly, and pulled her flush to him.

  34

  Irony and Aftermath