“Well.” Ramson jumped; he hadn’t even heard the door open. Lord Kerlan drew a gold fountain pen from his breast pocket and gently shut the door behind him. “Have a seat, son. Ramson…was it? Would you like some tea? You look half-frozen.”
Ramson numbly sat himself on the red velvet couch across from the coffee table. Lord Kerlan was still looking at him with that glimmer of amusement in his eyes, and he realized he hadn’t responded to the question. “No,” Ramson said, “thank you.”
Lord Kerlan dipped his head. “Very well.” He strode over to the coffee table, flipping his golden pen between his fingers as he did. “What can I do for you, Ramson Farrald?”
Ramson parted his lips. He had been rehearsing this line since that night in the barn, when he’d lain on the hay, unable to sleep and aching in every joint and muscle fiber. “You know my father, Roran Farrald.”
Lord Kerlan had been shuffling through a stack of papers; he paused, and his eyes flicked to Ramson’s face like the tongue of a snake. “I do.”
Ramson leaned forward, gripping the edges of his seat so hard that his knuckles were white. “I want to help you destroy him.”
* * *
—
That had been a lifetime ago. The boy who had been heartbroken and angry at the world had died seven years ago in a dark alley. Someone else had crawled from the mud that day and risen to take his place. He stood in this room now, calm and cold and clad in a black silk vest paid for by the blood of his trades.
But part of him knew that he wasn’t any less lost than the broken boy of seven years past.
“Well.” Kerlan shut the door and moved silently across the room. Ramson was used to it. Kerlan had a way with the shadows.
He stood before his coffee table, wearing his confidence like an expensive suit and carrying that same twinkle in his eyes. One only had to step closer to sniff out the stench of power clinging to him, to catch the rotting smell of greed and corruption hidden beneath layers of kologne. The Farrald boy of seven years ago hadn’t seen that: to him, Kerlan had been a means to an end. A means to end his father, who had taken everything from him.
But Ramson Quicktongue saw everything.
“Sit, my son,” Kerlan said, and seated himself in front of the coffee table, gesturing for Ramson to take the seat across. Behind him, the great brass clock tapped down the seconds. “I thought my runners were mistaken when they brought news of your escape. It seems like I was the one mistaken.”
Ramson matched the smile playing about Kerlan’s lips. “I’ve come a long way for you, Alaric.”
“So convince me why I shouldn’t send you right back.”
“You don’t need convincing. You haven’t killed me yet, which means news must have reached you that I have something to offer. Something worth more than any Trade or deal you’ve made in your entire life.”
Kerlan tapped a gold fountain pen against a large jeweled ring on his middle finger. “Some similar whispers might have found their way to me. My yaeger certainly did sniff something strange about that young dama.”
It seemed Igor and Bogdan had done their jobs and passed the word on—exactly as Ramson had orchestrated. Ramson hid a smile and matched his former master’s metal-gray stare. “Ever heard of the Blood Witch of Salskoff?” he asked. When Kerlan was silent, he continued. “I’ve brought her to you.”
Kerlan chuckled, tapping his pen twice, precisely on the tip of his finger. “No, you haven’t, Ramson. Not without something in exchange.”
“I’ve learned from the best.”
“You crawl out of prison, show up on my doorstep with no ranking, and now you want to make a Trade with me? I don’t know whether I should admire your bravery or laugh at your stupidity.”
“Yet still you continue to entertain me. You’re known to dispose of useless guests within seconds of a meeting, Alaric. It’s been over a minute, and you’re still listening to me.” Ramson leaned forward on the coffee table. “You want my Trade.”
Kerlan’s eyes crinkled in the cunning way they always did when his subordinates did something right. Ramson still shuddered to imagine what those cool gray eyes looked like when a member of the Order did something wrong. “Go on, dear boy.”
“Reinstate me as your Deputy, and I’ll use the Blood Witch to whatever ends you wish. I’ll hunt down the moles in the Order. I’ll bury our enemies. I’ll make the Order invincible.” Ramson forced a cruel grin. “She’s powerful, but she’s volatile. And it just so happens I’ve gained her trust. I know how to manipulate her, and that’s closer than anyone has ever gotten to her.”
Kerlan rubbed his heavy ring against his fountain pen. The sound was like grating blades on bone, and it seemed to help him think. “You failed me, boy. I gave you a mission—personally—and you failed. You know how I view failures…especially among my ranked officers.”
“People learn from their mistakes. I happen to be very good at it.” Ramson tried not to think of the night Kerlan had sent for him and given him the most difficult job in the seven years of his tenure at the Order. Kill the Emperor, Kerlan had said, in this very room. Kill him, and if anyone finds a trace of evidence that you did it, I’ll be first to volunteer you for the gallows.
Ramson had been on his way to Salskoff when he’d been intercepted several days later. The Whitecloaks had arrested him without cause, without trial, and left him to rot in Ghost Falls.
During those sleepless nights within the grime-covered walls, when the stench of sweat and piss had become too much for him to bear, one single thought had haunted him over and over again. If he hadn’t been stopped, would he have finished the job? How far would he go to remain loyal to the Order?
Kerlan was silent again, and Ramson pushed these thoughts aside. Now was not the time for useless sentiment. “I knew what failing meant for me, Alaric. Our interests were aligned. The leak came from your side. And I’m going to destroy it.”
The grating of the ring stopped. Kerlan looked up at last, and he was smiling. Not for the first time, Ramson had no idea how to interpret his master’s smile. He’d seen that expression when Kerlan had promoted him to Deputy. He’d also seen it seconds before Kerlan slit a man’s throat.
“I had already made up my mind,” Kerlan declared, and Ramson’s stomach tightened. Even before Kerlan went on, Ramson’s mind was racing six, seven moves ahead, mapping out the many directions this conversation could take. “I just wanted to see you fight for it. You know I like playing with my food.”
Ramson glanced at the clock. Forty-eight minutes past nine. Only twelve minutes, and Ana would be out of here safely.
He needed to stall for a little longer.
“You keep looking at the time, my son,” Kerlan said, and Ramson snapped his attention back. “Are you waiting for someone…or something?”
Cold gripped Ramson. Kerlan never spoke without deliberately choosing every word. Ramson’s voice sounded distant even as he said, “I wouldn’t want you to be late to your own party, Alaric.”
“Ah, very well, then.” Kerlan drew out a piece of parchment from one of the drawers of his desk. He began to meticulously unscrew the cap of his gold pen, each twist causing a shrill squeaking sound that sent shivers down Ramson’s spine. “Shall we make this Trade? I’ve been looking for a replacement Deputy ever since you left. I haven’t found anyone nearly as close in cleverness and ambition as you, Ramson.”
Ramson bowed his head. The dagger in his sleeve shifted as he leaned back in his seat. “I’m honored, my Lord.”
Kerlan gave a delicate pause. His wrist brushed the contract parchment. “Of course, you’ve heard the old story of the Cat and the Lion?”
Ramson frowned. “I have not.”
Kerlan set his pen down, eyes crinkled in what would look like kindness to anyone who didn’t know the man. “It’s an old Bregonian story, son. I suppos
e your dead mother would never have been able to tell you.”
Ramson kept his face blank.
“The Cat was the predecessor and master to the Lion,” Kerlan continued. “The Lion begged the Cat to train him in all sorts of skills. ‘Master,’ the Lion would plead, and the Cat would take pity on him and teach him something new each day. And with each passing day, the Lion grew—quicker and cleverer and more ruthless. He wanted to overthrow the Cat—to become the ruler of the mountain.
“One day, the Lion turned on the Cat. He used his strength, his stamina, his size, and his sharper claws to fight. But the Cat was older and more cunning, you see. There was one trick he hadn’t taught the Lion—and that was to climb trees.” Kerlan steepled his fingers, rings flashing. “And that was how the Cat survived. He knew the danger of having an apprentice too close to him in ambition and intelligence; he knew it would be his downfall, so he’d kept one last trick to himself.”
Kerlan fell silent, his gray eyes boring into Ramson, a small smile curling his lips. Ramson’s throat was dry; his heart pounded and his mind raced.
Slowly, Ramson flexed his hands, feeling the bulk of his dagger against his forearm.
“And that is why,” Kerlan said softly, leaning forward, smile widening, “I believe it is against my self-interest to hire a Deputy who is going to try to assassinate me in this very room.”
Ramson was on his feet by the time Kerlan finished the last word. He flicked his wrist; the dagger slipped out with a schick, blade glinting in the lamplight. He leapt onto Kerlan’s desk, drew his hand back, plunged—
And his arm went limp. The blade clattered on the surface of Kerlan’s oak desk, Ramson’s fingers dragging uselessly on top. For a moment, Ramson stared in astonishment at his arm. He heard Kerlan laughing.
A strange feeling crept up his entire body—it was the way he’d felt back when he’d been on the streets and hadn’t eaten for days. It felt like his muscles had atrophied and given out, as though all the strength had been drained from him.
He gasped and crumpled to the floor. Move, he commanded his body, but his arms were still as stone on the plush red carpet, as though they didn’t even belong to him.
Polished black shoes rounded the desk. Kerlan bent and slowly, deliberately, picked up the dagger Ramson had dropped. “Fine little blade,” he murmured, and then his gaze dropped back to Ramson. The expression on his face almost resembled pity, but Ramson knew better. Kerlan was savoring this moment.
From the hallway outside, a woman slipped in. Her hair, so black that it caught a blue sheen beneath the lamplight, and bronze skin marked her to be from one of the Aseatic Isles kingdoms. She leaned against the wall, tall and athletic, watching Ramson like a cougar watching its prey.
“How careless of me,” Kerlan sighed, tapping his temple and looking genuinely confused. “I forgot to introduce you. Meet Nita, our newest member, and Deputy to the Order of the Lily.”
Ramson’s head spun; it felt like his muscles had melted into water and his lungs were collapsing upon themselves. As though from a distance, he heard Kerlan continue. “I think she would be classified as a flesh Affinite, though her Affinity lies in manipulating strength. Strength in your muscles, in your organs, in your heart…”
Even as he spoke, pain throbbed through Ramson’s chest, sending spasms of nausea shooting through him. He choked a gasp.
Kerlan chuckled. Nita smiled. And then there was the cold, hard drag of a blade on his cheeks as Kerlan held Ramson’s dagger to his face.
Terror locked its grip across Ramson’s throat. He’d seen Kerlan torture men; he’d stood there and handed Kerlan the scalpels.
“As I said, dear boy, I like to play with my food, so don’t worry. I’m keeping you for later.” Kerlan stood, brushing off his immaculate indigo suit and pocketing Ramson’s dagger. His shadow fell over Ramson, blotting out the world. “I’ll have to beg your pardon and take my leave for now. I do hope I’ve been a good enough host. But after all, I have a ball to get to—there are some rather important guests tonight, I’d say.” Kerlan’s teeth flashed. “And, it seems, I have a very special girl to find.”
No. But Ramson’s scream was trapped in his throat, his body paralyzed as he watched Kerlan’s retreating back disappear into the hallway outside. And then Nita stepped forward and the pressure on his chest increased, his throat constricting, his body growing numb.
Black spots dotted his vision, and soon he was drowning in darkness.
The snow fell thicker now, whirling in flurries beneath each swinging lamp that lit the veranda. Their shadows swayed unsteadily as Ana hurried past them. The few guests who had been outside had retreated inside. Laughter and music and light spilled from the tall windows and open doors of the banquet hall, cloaking Ana’s footsteps as she ran. Down the marble steps, past the balustrades of the veranda—and then she was on the ground floor, behind a pillar that supported the balconies.
Her heart pounded an uneven beat in her chest as she hid in the shadows, watching. It was him—it was undoubtedly him, Ana thought, taking in the white of the man’s cloak, the smooth skin of his head, and the paleness of his fingers as he raised them to the skies. A silver Deys’krug flashed around his neck, and she recalled with sudden sickness that he’d worn almost the same outfit exactly one year ago, when he’d murdered Papa.
Tetsyev made a circular motion across his chest, the sign of respect to the Cyrilian Deities, and tilted his face to the sky.
Ramson had coached her on how to construct the perfect ruse—her as a messenger from Kerlan, asking Tetsyev to examine the Deys’voshk in Kerlan’s basement before the newest shipment of Affinites arrived.
But lies and trickery were how Ramson would conduct his scheme. They were not, Ana realized now, how she did things.
Ana flared her Affinity. The garden lit up in shades of dark and light—and the flaming body of blood that was Tetsyev a dozen steps in front of her.
Ana strode forward. Tetsyev’s back was to her, and the snow muffled her footsteps. Her entire body shook. Something dangerous had coiled tightly in her stomach.
Her foot slipped; she muffled her cry.
Tetsyev turned. “What—” he began, eyes widening, but Ana threw her Affinity around him and tightened her grasp on his blood. Tetsyev made a choking sound, his eyes seeking out her shadow in the night.
“Do you feel that?” Ana gave another sharp tug on his blood, making sure to keep her face tilted away from the light. Tetsyev groaned. “That’s just a taste of what I can do to you. Now follow me quietly, and you’ll live.”
Her heart raced as she led him through the glass doors into the banquet hall, her Affinity tight as a noose around his neck. She walked a half dozen steps in front of him, but she could almost see his figure outlined in her mind in blood. He trailed her like a ghost, his hands clasped tightly, his steps in tune to hers.
The huge brass clock in the middle of the banquet hall struck twenty-five past nine when they slipped from the ball into the maze of corridors in Kerlan’s mansion. Ana recited the directions Ramson had drilled into her—second left, first right, fifth left—and the map he’d forced her to memorize until she could find her way in her sleep.
The halls were eerily empty, and as they walked, the winding set of hallways grew narrower, the bare floors no longer covered in exotic carpeting. The expensive décor faded to plain marble, and walls became barren. An air of neglect hung in this section of the mansion, infused with an unnatural stillness that made her feel as though they were trespassing in forbidden territory.
When Ana swept the area with her Affinity, there was not a single guard or servant around. A feeling of unease crept up on her as they made their last turn and found themselves in front of a dead end of a passageway. An ordinary oakwood door stood before them, a round brass handle polished.
Taking a deep breath, Ana grasped
the handle and began to turn it. Two circles clockwise, five counterclockwise, then three clockwise again. Ramson’s voice seemed to whisper by her ear, and she felt the ghost of his touch as he guided her hands through the motions. Then push.
A clacking and whirring sound almost made her jump. It came from within the door, like a series of gears grinding open. Ana threw her weight against the door and pushed.
It ground open inch by inch, and she realized that despite its appearance, this was no ordinary door. It was thicker than the length of her forearm, and as it swung open into the light, she saw the glittering black material on the other side, and felt coldness and a sense of weakness drape over her like a suffocating cloak. Blackstone.
A dark smear stretched from the stones at the tips of her shoes to the stone steps leading into darkness, as though someone had dragged a long brushstroke of ink from here to the depths below. Blood, her Affinity screamed.
“In here,” she instructed Tetsyev, and quietly, he began his descent. Ana grabbed the nearest torch from its sconce and Tetsyev drifted past her in the darkness, the white of his cloak reflecting her torchlight. Ana closed the door behind her and followed the alchemist. At the bottom of the stairs was a small room, the walls made of rough-hewn stone. A distinct set of chains stretched like a grotesque vine along the walls, and to the right of the chamber, a corridor led on into darkness.
Ana threw her shoulders back. After all this time, the man she had been searching for stood before her.
Tetsyev faced the tunnel stretching beyond the chamber, his back to her. He was so still he might have been made of stone. Ana remembered this very same outline, carved in monochrome by the bone-white moon, standing over her father’s deathbed.
“Turn around,” she said.
He did, slowly. His frightened gray eyes fell on her as she carefully set the torch in a sconce on the wall. “Do you recognize me?”
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