Collecting their bowls, Deley stepped away to wash them. Sadikaye laced his fingers together, the advice of his mother, his father, and Deley echoing in his head.
He still wasn’t certain how he felt about Jaspur, but the young prince certainly needed help if he was going to succeed in this alliance.
“Tomorrow, then,” he nodded.
“Aye,” the rogue agreed. “Tomorrow.”
Eyes on the Inside
Hands planted against the balcony’s rail, Shadow leaned forward, his eyes squeezed shut. Shallow breaths produced small clouds of fog between his cracked lips as he sucked in the crisp night air. The re’shahna rocked back and forth, teetering over the railing’s edge in a dangerous tango called chance as the voices inside his head continued to torment him.
We remember your deeds.
We’ve counted your transgressions.
Judgment awaits you.
We await you.
Your days are numbered.
Shadow dared not open his eyes, for he knew they would be standing there. He could feel the owners of each voice surrounding him on the balcony, their hollow eyes boring into him as they talked about settling the score. At first their apparitions were merely a nuisance; something he could blink away and ignore.
Now they lingered like unwanted guests. The words they planted inside his head burrowed deeper every day, awakening Shadow’s doubts and making him question his life’s pursuits.
He was a god among the people of Velagray, feared more than revered, yet his sway over them was undeniable. They cowered under his fury and scrambled to fulfill his orders for fear of incurring his wrath. He thought himself impenetrable.
Yet he could not defend against the horrors of his own mind.
The harder Shadow fought to ignore them, the louder the voices became, as if they intentionally tried to override his resistance. This was the side effect of a deteriorating mind, the healers said. A manifestation of his doubts and nothing more.
Yet real or not, they did not relent. The voices spoke of troubling impossibilities, and yet something deep inside of Velagray’s king was starting to believe them. He would wake up in a cold sweat, the haunting image of the kingdom’s former prince imprinted inside his mind.
He comes.
The prince comes.
The throne you stole shall be reclaimed.
From the height you have risen, you shall fall.
Growling through his teeth, Shadow made another futile attempt to block the voices out, but they would not stop. Day and night, the dead echoed warnings inside of his mind. Frustration evolved into paranoia, and he started to wonder if he had made a mistake.
In spite of his mortal wound, the body of Jaycent Connor had never been found. Could it be he had somehow survived their battle eighteen years ago?
Was the prince alive and lying in wait, anticipating a moment when Shadow would let down his guard?
The idea seemed ludicrous, and yet…
Thrusting himself away from the balcony’s edge, the king stormed into his chamber and collected his cloak. He did not get this far by taking chances. Shadow had to prove the voices wrong.
And he knew exactly where to start.
* * * * *
Darthek found himself stripped down and prodded once more by a team of healers who actively muttered to one another while jotting down notes. They didn’t speak to him other than to ask him questions regarding his health. Their work ethic bordered upon obsession, but it was not passion that drove them. Like everyone Darthek had seen in this castle so far, the healer’s only motivation was to avoid Shadow’s wrath. It was almost pitiful.
Or, at least, Darthek assumed it was. He was too detached to feel such emotions himself. The only thing he gathered from the cowardice of Shadow’s staff is that none of them seemed to carry a shred of hope.
The assassin had seen the sway of fear countless times in his career, but never had anyone achieved such unanimous submission. There was always a rebel. A spark that if it caught upon the right kindling could lead to a revolt. Not long ago, he tried to warn Shadow of this risk. Now he realized why the king had disregarded it.
How had he managed to achieve this level of control?
No matter how strong a tyrant may be, there was always someone willing to resist the clutches of his or her power. It was within the very nature of intelligent beings to fight or flee when pressed into a corner, and eventually someone here should have chosen the former.
Had the re’shahna formed allies here? Were they simply waiting patiently for the opportunity Patchi had said would come?
Darthek studied his healers once more. Their eyes were sullen and downcast, their lips dipped in a permanent frown. It was not how people with a plan carried themselves. Creatures with hope didn’t look so dead inside. The assassin was certain they knew nothing of the infiltration of Patchi’s spies, much less their intent.
The door opened suddenly, stealing the healers’ attention. Still seated on the bed, Darthek lifted his chin so he could see over the shoulder of the rahee in front of him. As he did, he caught sight of Shadow gliding into the room in his trademark leather armor.
Did he ever take it off?
The king of Velagry strode toward Darthek, his midnight cloak fluttering behind him. The healers quickly parted to make way for their king, each one practically folding in half as they bowed before him.
Shadow ignored them all, his focus on the assassin sitting calmly on the bed. The vulnerabilities Darthek had witnessed before were well hidden now. The king looked as determined as ever, his bloodlust eyes fixed and focused.
Lifting his hand above his shoulder, he flicked his wrist in a dismissive motion. “Get out, the lot of you. I want to speak with the assassin alone.”
The healers dipped out of the room like scurrying mice, eager to be free of Shadow’s presence.
“Can you walk?” the king asked.
Darthek slid off the bed and onto his feet. “Yes.”
“Good. Get dressed. I want to show you something.”
The assassin slipped on a shirt and boots and Shadow nodded toward the door. Darthek’s feet fell in step with the king’s, his interest piqued. The halls were dark, the windows shuttered against starlight and prying eyes.
Torches lined the walls, their smoke ventilating through shafts that opened up near the ceiling. Darthek couldn’t help but notice the king walked as if he wore blinders, his attention fixed straight ahead.
Shadow was an alert creature, and yet he took no notice of the posted guards, empty suits of armor, or even the open doors as they passed them by. It seemed as though he was purposefully avoiding any distractions.
As they turned right toward a massive staircase that led to the foyer below, Shadow began to speak.
“Your chance to begin fulfilling your debt starts now. However, when we are finished talking I believe you will find here in Velagray the opportunity to truly prosper. You are a gifted man, Darthek, and such talents should not go to waste.”
The king paused, giving the assassin a chance to speak, but Darthek didn’t react. He merely continued to listen, his face unreadable. It seemed to amuse the king, who flashed a deviant smile.
“I like you. From the moment you stepped into my throne room I thought to myself, ‘There is a man I can understand.’ You are practical and unburdened by the bothersome sway of conscience or emotion.
“By my side, you can thrive. I offer you a wealthy life, full of challenges and intrigue. But first, let me show you what I’ve done so you may fully understand the king you will serve.”
Again, Darthek didn’t answer. He was a man of few words to begin with, yet he also had the wisdom to know when it was best to speak or keep quiet. He saw past Shadow’s flattery and rhetoric to see the gilded cage he offered, and refusing it now would merely downgrade him to an actual cell.
Veering toward the back of the foyer, the pair passed through a door with many bolts before descending another set a stairs
, this one twice as long. The air grew humid and hot as they descended, as if they entered some sort of forge.
Except there was no fire below, nor the glow of molten stone. Darthek could hear screeching and scratching. Whatever it stemmed from was very much alive, though by the sound of things it likely preferred otherwise.
Darthek could feel an unseen pressure bearing down on him as the stairs spiraled downward. When the tight walls broke free at last, opening into a vast underground cavern, he felt his breath ripped from his lungs.
The pair stood upon a platform above what looked to be a laboratory of horrors. Below them, night mares and other Abysmal creatures writhed in cages, crying out with unbridled fury fused with pain.
Nearby servants moved with the same lifelessness of the healers, their actions cold and methodical as they injected horses with something that looked like glowing molasses.
They screamed in a way that made even Darthek’s blood run cold. The assassin didn’t move. He didn’t even blink as he watched the equines’ healthy bodies shrivel into emaciated, living carcasses. Barely able to hold themselves upright, the creatures were then dragged away to a series of stalls where other servants covered head to toe with protective gear began another phase of experimentation.
“When Melah escaped, Velagray immediately became vulnerable to her influence. A city built upon the backs of equines was ripe for the taking, should she choose it. However, as I explained to you before, her gift is linked to the spirit of equines. Take that spirit away and there is nothing left for her to influence.”
“Is this what you did to the hart you gave me when I was tasked to hunt her down?”
“Similar,” the king admitted. “However, not as powerful. A lot of time and effort went into that creature, but we do not currently have such leisure. There are many horses in Velagray and only so much time to prepare before Patchi, Melah, and whoever else they have managed to recruit will make some move against me.
“I am merely eliminating a risk. These are puppets now. Mindless creatures neither living nor dead and without any will of their own. Quite useful, really.”
Darthek nodded, but he was less focused on Shadow’s reasoning and more on the movements of the people executing this unnatural experiment. One thing they held in common was a mark Darthek couldn’t decipher. It marred their forearm, like a brand.
“You mark your slaves like cattle,” Darthek observed. “Why?”
“Ah, so you noticed.” In a quieter tone, Shadow murmured, “Of course you did.”
The assassin shrugged. “I find it curious. It has become clear to me in my time here that your servants have lost all urge to rebel. You have tamed them, so why the mark? Is it psychological? A reinforcement of your ownership? Or do you use the mark to track down strays who manage to escape?”
“All of it and more,” Shadow crossed his arms, a wicked smile curling back his lips. “You asked me once if I feared rebellion. I told you I did not. My confidence doesn’t just stem from the fear I instilled within these people, Darthek. The magic I wield and weave allows me to do so much more.”
The assassin pressed his lips into a pensive expression. “A curse, then?”
“More like a mental collar,” the king replied. “With it, I can track them, tame them, bring them to their knees.”
“How?”
Shadow motioned to one of the servants walking down the stairs, his arms hugging a crate filled with containers of the molasses substance. Noting the king’s beckoning, he approached and set down his goods, then bowed before Shadow.
“Your Majesty,” the servant greeted from beneath his mask, his tone morose. “How may I serve you?”
Shadow studied his fingers casually, rubbing them together as if he were gathering his thoughts. “You will serve as a demonstration.”
“What would you like me to do, my king?”
Shadow snapped his fingers. The servant immediately fell to his knees, an animalistic grunt forming in his throat. His body began to tremble, the sound growing into a wail as he clenched his hands into fists.
Darthek couldn’t see his face, but the way the servant held his gloved fingers before his mask, it was clear something terrible had happened. His chest expanded as he let in a deep breath.
And then he began to scream with the pitch of a pig before its slaughter.
The assassin stared at the display, his expression as bare as a clean sheet of parchment. Yet somewhere inside of him, there was a stirring he didn’t recognize. Like a droplet upon the surface of still water, it rippled through his consciousness.
“What is happening?” he inquired.
“Illusions,” Shadow replied. “It is my innate gift, and my specialty. By weaving my magic into a rune, I can bind these servants to my will. It is an extensive and exhausting process, but as you can see the solution is quite worthwhile. Those I mark do not resist.”
“Never?”
“Never.”
Holding his palm above his servant, the king’s eyes flared with a wicked light. Suddenly, the screaming stopped. The servant went limp.
Shadow stepped over the body and motioned for the assassin to follow. The pair headed back up the stairs, leaving the other servants behind to deal with the now incapacitated individual.
“You see, Darthek, obedience is key. I do not bid my servants to obey me. I give them no choice. It leaves little room for doubt.”
The assassin narrowed his eyes upon the king, his genius mind seeing the message beneath it all. “You doubt me.”
“I understand you. You play to your own advantage. In this case, it is likely you will side with whoever you believe has the greatest chance of succeeding in this conflict. You have met me, and you have met Patchi.
“But I have defeated Patchi many times in the past, and I will do so again. Thus, I would like to use your pragmatic lack of allegiance to my advantage.”
“How so?”
“You had eyes on who rescued Melah, as well as who was among Patchi’s allies. I want to know everyone you saw during your stint as their captive, starting with any of them that may have blue eyes.”
“Blue eyes?” Again, Darthek squinted, but this time it was in confusion.
“Just a hunch…” the king smiled.
Darthek considered the question, along with everything Shadow had revealed. For all of the assassin’s guile and strength, he was just a pawn between these two powerful re’shahna.
However, there was certainly a difference between them. The evil that tainted Shadow’s spirit was unlike any the assassin had encountered, and that was quite a revelation.
Darthek had seen evil take many forms, but none so dark as this. A self-proclaimed master of illusion, Velagray’s king had gone to radical levels to bind and contort innumerable living things to his will. A tactic that he may very well use upon the assassin too, should he feel so inclined.
“Blue eyes…” Darthek paused as he considered the king’s request. “There was one of note, though he never spoke to me. I saw him only in passing. He exchanged words with several of those who appeared to be in charge, but what his role was, I couldn’t tell.”
“What made him stand out?”
“The way he carried himself. He walked like someone who knew no master but himself.”
“What did he look like?”
“Scruffy,” the assassin mumbled. “Lean. He dressed like the re’shahna, but his ears lacked that thin coat of fur you and the others of your kind have. He must have been a rahee, though I had never seen one quite that tall.”
The more he talked, the darker Shadow’s countenance seemed to grow. Darthek watched it carefully, his guard heightened. “Did he carry a sword?”
“Yes,” the assassin replied. “White, with a hilt wrapped in leather. He had a name for it, too.”
“Let me guess,” the king stopped walking. His nose curled in disgust. “Lumiere?”
Darthek cocked his head to the side. “How did you know?”
MO
ONRIDGE
He felt guilty. That doesn’t exactly make him a good person. Words rarely stung the rogue, but Sadikaye’s lingered long after he overheard them. As Siabra and his young charges settled down to rest, Jaspur retreated to his post set not far beyond the fire’s light.
Night had fully descended by now, making it more difficult to see if he strayed too far outside of camp, but Jaspur had lived in the wilds long enough not to be dependent on eyesight alone. He had four other senses to help guide him, and he was attuned to all of them.
Diego trod along in his wake, his heavy hooves falling in a muted rhythm through the foliage. The screams of the wendigo would likely keep any other predators away for the night in fear of sharing its fate. Thus, the rogue was alert but not on edge.
As they approached the spot he had been using as a lookout, Jaspur leapt nimbly upon Diego’s back and used it to spring into the boughs of a tree. It was an old one with limbs that coiled into whimsical lines. Jaspur climbed a bit higher before he settled into the crook of a thick branch, his back rested comfortably against the tree’s smooth trunk.
Drawing his hood, the rogue wrapped himself in the warmth of his cloak, noting for the first time how worn out it had become. Parts of the fabric were thinner now. The fur that lined its edges was patchy and bare in places and a few holes poked through the fibers. He ran his fingers across the fabric, his thoughts drifting back to when he had first made it.
He had been in his mid-twenties, living amidst the re’shahna with Levee as they learned to hone their innate gifts. That season was full of good memories, in spite of the foreboding circumstances that led them there. It was during that period that Tobiano became their mentor and the relationship between he and Levee blossomed into romance.
Yet those times felt so distant now, as did the person he used to be. The rogue’s soul had been set adrift upon the wrong sea for many years. He faced tumultuous waves of guilt and shame while believing the shore was long out of sight and reach. Had his late cousin’s spirit not intervened, he would have likely drowned in his own despair.
The Rogue Trilogy Page 93