The Allseer Trilogy

by Kaitlyn Rouhier

  “You fret too much, Sampson. It makes me ill,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “Besides, the only way anyone will know it’s me here is if you keep calling me that. There are plenty of soldiers here, so quit yapping and let me watch the execution.”

  Sampson gave a polite bow and forced a smile. As always, he didn’t argue, though he did nothing to hide his displeasure. They were two amongst a sea of people. The Scarlet Square was fit to burst, people pressing in from every side street as they tried to find a good vantage point to watch the daily execution.

  Had she truly been trying to hide, Lillana would have seen herself down amongst the commoners, their unperfumed bodies reeking of filth. Instead, she’d found a cozy spot on the upper platforms, brushing elbows with sweet smelling lords and ladies. They all wore a customary black mask, a nod to Zekar. Her own mask was an elegant representation of a skull and it hid her identity behind swirls and shimmering gemstones. To any of the common filth, she’d look like just another noble. Only Sampson knew otherwise.

  The crowd surged as a line of sinners were shuffled through the masses. Curses filled the air, vile threats and hate filled vitriol slung their way as they mounted the steps that would lead to their doom. It was less than they deserved, and she took solace knowing that it was Zekar himself that would snuff out their tainted souls. They were cursed betrayers, worshippers of a foul, deceitful goddess and such corruption could only be met with death.

  The powers they possessed were ungodly, used to drive fear and corruption into the hearts of her subjects. It was a terrible thing, to wield such power and use it to hurt others. It was why such corruption had to be cleansed from the land. If they were left to run rampant, to breed like gutter rats, they’d eventually overtake them, using their godforsaken powers to crush the royal family, her family, out of existence. And if such a thing were to happen, night would surely fall over the world. It was the royal family that stood for the common folk. It was their sacred duty to stand against the corruption, to see it snuffed out before sparks could turn to flames.

  She watched with dissatisfaction at the meager stream of cursed souls lining the wooden platform in the middle of the square. There were so few of them. The Seekers hadn’t been doing their job. The condemned looked like they had been wrestling pigs, all slovenly and smeared with dirt. Pests. Creatures to be smashed beneath her heel. It was a family, an older woman and man and three whelps at their side. It was distasteful that they had remained in hiding long enough to have children. They were driven to their knees on the platform. One by one the executioner would go, opening their throats and their souls to Zekar.

  As the knife was drawn and held high above the crowd, cheers erupted. The tainted family was pelted with sludge, with rotting vegetables, and maggot covered meat. Curses were spit upon them and they wept and wept. Lillana felt disgusted knowing they wept for their fate and not for their crimes against the people.

  The executioner, garbed all in black, stepped to the woman. The bound man at her side was weeping, begging the executioner, the crowd, even the spiteful tart Riel to save his beloved. It was a pathetic display. The woman’s head was tilted back, the blade slicing quick and true. A fountain of scarlet splashed upon the platform, dripping into the square below. The cheer from the crowd was deafening. Lillana smiled.

  The man was a blubbering cow, tears streaming down his grief stricken face. The executioner grabbed a fistful of hair and forced his head back while his children watched wide-eyed, too shocked to cry or scream or protest. The blade pressed against his throat and then a hush fell over the crowd, one of shock and dismay. The blade fell from the executioner’s hand, a hand that instead rose to grip the arrow protruding from his heart. He staggered back, slipping off the platform and landing on the cobbled square with a sickening crunch.

  Screams followed. The crowd panicked, the sea of people trying to flee down streets too clogged to allow movement. People fell left and right, trampled underfoot by those seeking escape. Others were struck by arrows, by blades, and by the mental fury unleashed by corrupted vipers moving amongst them. Masked Seekers moved swiftly through the crowd, using their own unique abilities to find the hateful rebels causing havoc.

  Lillana was drawn back away from the edge of the platform by Sampson, his normally docile demeanor gone in a flash. His hand gripped hers tightly. “Stay right with me, Your Highness. Stay right here.”

  Panic was slipping through her skin, her throat constricting with fear. Nobles were stuck on the platform, a flimsy raft on a churning sea. Those seeking safety from below tried to clamber onto the platform, only to be cut down by the guards they sought to be protected by.

  The square was draining of people, but it was slow, so painfully slow. They were sitting ducks, lambs for the slaughter. Arrows hurtled into the crowds from above. She could see blurry shapes all around the square, raining death down upon them. The nobles all huddled together in the center of the platform, trying to keep away from the chaos. Sampson released her arm, stepping away for a moment to grab a shield off a fallen guard.

  “Allseer bless you, Princess,” said a man just to her right. He smiled beneath his half mask and Lillana felt her heart drop into her stomach. She barely had time to scream as he jolted forward, dagger in hand. A hand caught her shoulder, shoved her aside with great force. There was the crash of steel on steel and she watched as Sampson knocked the blade away from her attacker. He moved so quick. He was steady and sure, his movements fluid and subtle. His blade bit once, twice, a third time. The cursed heathen that had tried to harm her slumped to the ground, blood gushing between his fingers.

  Sampson was by her side before she could blink. He cupped her chin softly, forced her to look into his eyes, so blue, just like the sea. And calm. How could he be so calm? She was sure if she looked into her own eyes, they’d be a howling abyss of confusion and shock. “Your Highness, look at me. You’re not hurt, are you?”

  It took a moment to process the words. “N-no, Sampson. I’m fine.” Sampson was no longer just a weak, mild-mannered pest that snapped at her heels. She’d caught a glimpse of something else, a warrior, a mystery. Oh Zekar, forgive my foolishness.

  With a strong grip, he hauled her to her feet. He gave a shout above the crowd, calling for reinforcements, calling for protection for a member of the royal family. In an instant, a masked Seeker was at her side, her gray eyes simmering with irritation. “What is she doing here?” the Seeker all but demanded, glaring at Sampson as if he’d lost his senses. “Why didn’t we know about this?”

  “It was a mistake,” Sampson growled, matching her fire. “We can’t exactly change it now, so help me get her out of here.”

  “Fool,” the Seeker spat. Lillana wanted to slap her, to use her position of authority to put the Seeker in her place but, considering the circumstances, it seemed ill advised. The square was thinning, the carnage revealing itself to all. She felt herself sway and Sampson pulled her closer.

  “We can use the tunnels. I wouldn’t normally suggest it but the situation isn’t under our control just yet. Let’s go,” the Seeker said. She leapt from the platform, drawing blades as she landed. They were long and lethal and Lillana felt bad for whoever ended up on the pointy end of them. She climbed down from the platform and stayed close to the Seeker, Sampson right on her heels. The Seeker cleared a path through the crowd, the citizens giving her a wide berth.

  A man, disobeying the commands of the Seeker to get out of the way, was cut down without hesitation. Their enemies were clever. She’d take no chances and for that Lillana was grateful.

  The hurried pace of their flight made breathing difficult, her corset digging into her ribs. She panted like a dog as she struggled to keep pace with those guarding her. Eventually, the Seeker took a hard right, taking them down a flight of cobbled steps that led to an unassuming green door. The Seeker hammered on it until it creaked open. Brief words were exchanged and then she was pushed into a dimly lit tunnel.

  Sev
eral Seekers stood in the tunnel, holding torches high. Their expressionless black masks reflected the flame, making them look more intimidating than they already were. Despite their loyal service to the royal family, it was hard to trust them. The Seekers weren’t just guards. They didn’t just protect royal brats that refused to heed the warnings of their parents. The Seekers themselves were the enemy, as least as far as their abilities were concerned. Just like those they swore to protect her against, they too had powers. They were cursed, their blood filled with whatever vial taint gave them their abilities. The only difference was they were devout worshippers of Zekar and their loyalty to the royal family was unquestionable, at least from what she’d been told.

  Still, the thought of them made Lillana shudder, and in the dim light of the tunnels, the threat of them felt very, very real. Sampson stayed close to her side, his free hand wrapping around her waist. He held her close, sensing her discomfort. “It’ll be okay, Your Highness. They’ll see us through safely. Have faith.”

  She nodded slowly, following them through the long, twisting passageways. After what felt like eternity winding through the dark, they reached their destination. The Seeker with the stormy eyes turned to them. “Sampson, I believe you know the way from here. And I think it goes without saying that such an incident will not happen again.”

  Sampson cursed under his breath, meeting her gaze without backing down. “It was a mistake,” he growled. “It won’t happen again.”

  “See that it doesn’t,” the Seeker warned. She stepped past Lillana, her shoulder bumping her roughly. If not for the shock settling into her bones, she would have scolded the woman for her brazen actions. Instead, she let Sampson lead her by the hand. When they reached a door at the end of the long tunnel, he stopped her and turned her towards him. With a delicate touch, he reached up and removed the mask from her face and then removed his own.

  “Your Highness,” he said softly. “Your mother will be most displeased to know what transpired today. It is regrettable, but after this, I will most likely be removed from your service.”

  Lillana’s throat constricted, her heart pounding in her chest. He had saved her, had gotten her out of the horrible situation they had been in. She’d seen what he could do, what he was willing to do, to protect her. He’d proven himself far more than the weak scholar she’d thought him to be. “She doesn’t have to know,” she croaked, hoping he didn’t see the tears that sprang to life in her eyes. “We don’t have to tell her.”

  Sampson smiled sadly. “Princess, you’re terribly disheveled. There is no lying about what you’ve seen today. I can see it in your eyes.”

  She protested, shaking her head. “Get me into the castle, Sampson. Get me in and I will bathe and change and hide the marks of what I saw today. Mother will be none the wiser. You did a good thing today. You protected me like a true warrior. I was wrong to ever doubt you.”

  Sampson beamed, her words seeming to stoke some fire within him. He rushed towards her, kissing her briefly on the brow. It was unwise but at the moment, Lillana didn’t care. He took her hand, leading her out of the tunnels and into the bright light of midday. As promised, he got her into the castle and she fled to the baths, intent on washing away the day’s events. Servants helped her bathe, cleansed and brushed her hair, and not one dared to ask questions. They knew her temper well.

  Freshly dressed, the secrets of the day locked away out of sight, she went to meet her mother.

  CHAPTER 11

  Garild was tired of waiting. Stuck in a private alcove, he was overwhelmed by the sights and smells around him; piss, smoke, and grease. The thick wooden door of the alcove was kept open, providing him an open view of the dingy tavern he’d found himself stuck in.

  He cursed his bad luck, crossing his arms and leaning further back against the cushioned seat. There was nothing gilded about The Gilded Goat. Its patrons were a bunch of low life scum; lechers and alcoholics and foul mouthed sailors. And he was but a one handed man waiting on such a sailor. Barog. It was the name the dying old man had given Trista and he’d promised the sailor could get them to Sharmir.

  They’d spent most of the day slinking around town, trying to find any leads as to where Barog was hiding. It was always the same. Barog had retired. Barog was just a drunk. Barog didn’t talk to someone unless he wanted to. It was only when he’d started flashing coin that people took notice and what he’d been told had led him to a grimy bar in a dark little corner of town. He’d argued profusely with Trista over going alone and eventually, and much to his surprise, she’d relented. He didn’t want to put them in danger and The Gilded Goat seemed like just the place to find it.

  The barkeep, a tall fellow with a stern face and coffee colored skin, had sat him in the alcove, promising Barog would find him soon. He’d lied. In fact, Garild was ready to give up altogether. This is getting ridiculous. If he didn’t want to meet with me, he could have…

  His thought trailed off as he felt the prickling sensation of eyes watching him. He glanced out into the rowdy common room, a mess of sweaty bodies and slurring drunks, many too inebriated to stay properly seated. Serving girls weaved between the bodies and wandering hands, smiling politely as they delivered drinks. And somewhere in that mess sat a broad shouldered man, his dark eyes watching Garild with interest. His hair was a shock of black ringlets, barely contained by a lone strip of leather holding them in place. He had a well-groomed beard and rings on every finger, and they glimmered in the low light of the bar.

  Garild looked away, huffing loudly. His presence was starting to draw attention, attention he neither wanted nor needed. He gathered his pack and swept out of the alcove, avoiding eye contact with the patrons. He was almost to the door when a hand, one laden with rings, fell on his shoulder. His heart reacted in kind, doing a terrified leap in his chest. Trying to keep his composure, he turned.

  The dark haired man stood before him, towered over him. Despite what his broad shoulders indicated, he was long and lean and muscular. He wore simple clothes, a plain gray tunic and brown pants. Only his rings gave any indication of wealth. “I never thought you’d leave that alcove, boy.” His voice was smooth and dark, just the slightest hint of an accent. “You’ve kept me waiting. I don’t like waiting.”

  Garild narrowed his eyes. The man obviously thought he was someone else. He’d explain the mistake and be on his way. “I’m afraid you-”

  “No. Hush. Head back to that room right now. I want to meet the boy who threw my name all around town, flashing coin and drawing attention from here to Val’shar. Get!” The man shoved his shoulder, forcing him back towards the alcove. Nobody paid them any mind. In fact, it seemed people looked away on purpose, as if fearing some wrath they hadn’t incurred.

  Garild obeyed, taking quick steps towards the secluded room. If the man planned to attack him, there was nothing he could do. It wasn’t like he could easily wield a weapon, not with any skill. The only avenue of escape left to him would be to use his powers, powers he had shunned ever since the fall of Sanctuary. And to do that would be to mark him as a heathen across the whole of Taverin.

  Once inside the alcove, the man shoved him towards a chair. “Sit,” he commanded. Procuring a set of matches, he lit the candles on the table one by one. He did not rush, his movements slow and deliberate. Smoke curled in the confined space, thin wispy tendrils floating lazily in the air. The man turned, pulled shut the alcove door, and blocked them from the rest of the world. As the man sat between him and the exit, he realized there would be no escape.

  “So,” said the man, leaning back in his seat. “I’m going to assume you know who I am. What I want to know is who you are. People don’t ask after me without good reason. I hope you have a good reason,” he said, flashing his white teeth. The last part was both question and thinly veiled threat and from what he had gathered, the man was none other than Barog.

  Garild felt a surge of anger. “You were sitting there the whole time just watching me. Why didn’t yo
u say anything?”

  The man grunted, his dark eyes glinting. “I’m asking the questions. You answer and then I answer. I take it you know how to have a civilized conversation?”

  Garild bit back his anger, hand balling into a fist.

  “Good. So, I ask again, who are you?”

  “My name is Garild. An old acquaintance of yours sent me here to find you. He said you’d be able to help me. So, why didn’t you speak with me sooner?”

  “I wanted to see what you would do. I wanted to see how long it would take you to get flustered, to leave. You didn’t disappoint. Most men leave after ten minutes. They are too hasty and their meeting never happens.” Barog laughed, his shoulders rising and falling with the action. “So, an old acquaintance sends you begging through the streets for information about a handsome, retired sailor? I just don’t think that is so. Does this old acquaintance have a name?”

  “An elderly man, a scholar by the name of Brogen.”

  “Brogen sent you here?” Barog asked, genuine surprise shifting his features. “The sly old fox. Our names are close, no? We bonded over that once. It’s been years since I last spoke to him. He was well acquainted with my father. Why isn’t the old fool here himself? It isn’t like him to send a boy in his stead.”

  Garild bristled. “I’m not- never mind. Brogen is terribly ill, possibly even dead at this point. My friend, Trista, she tended to him a couple weeks back. He wasn’t doing well.”

  Barog narrowed his eyes. “And you say Brogen, who may or may not be dead, sent you here to get a favor from me?”

  “Yes,” Garild said. “That is exactly why I am here. Brogen said you may be able to help me and in return, I’d also be doing a favor for him. He said you and your father once took his son to Sharmir years ago, though I think smuggled would be the better term.”