by Will Wight
Then again, if her reputation was anything to go by, she could probably do that without the armor. This was Jarelys Teach, General and Head of the Imperial Guard, and she had risen to her current position on a tide of rebel blood. The hilt of a sword peeked over her shoulder—that would be Tyrfang, the executioner’s blade that predated the Empire itself. Kerian was no Reader, but she could feel the weight of the sheathed sword from twenty yards away. If Teach wanted to kill everyone here on the dock, all she would have to do was draw her weapon.
General Teach hit the stone with a deafening crunch, both knees bent and one hand pressed against the dock for balance. She recovered instantly, sweeping the two lines of kneeling Consultants with pale blue eyes.
The Kameira’s second passenger landed an instant later, as lightly as if he had stepped down from a curb. His clothes were cut in an ancient style: voluminous folds in many layers, as though he had wrapped himself in enough fabric to clothe a small village. Sunset colors, she noticed—layers of orange and red and gold. The only exception was a silver chain hanging around his neck, though it disappeared into the layers of his robes.
His skin was dark, almost black: the skin of a pureblooded Heartlander.
He is the original Heartlander, she reminded herself. The father of every bloodline. The idea was jarring. He might have been born before the island on which they stood.
She had to adjust her thinking, and quickly. It wasn’t every day that she came face-to-face with the oldest man in the world.
He passed a hand over his bald head as if smoothing hair back, and then he turned and met Kerian’s eyes. She hurriedly turned her gaze back to the stone beneath her, heart pounding, pleading with fate that the Emperor would not be offended with her.
“Rise, Kerian,” the Emperor said, his voice rich and warm. “I understand that you have prepared the students I ordered.”
Kerian rose to her feet, though she couldn’t look any higher than his chin. Her eyes stuck there, staring at the silver chain around his neck. “I always try to anticipate the needs of my clients,” she said.
The Emperor smiled broadly and clapped a hand on her shoulder, a father congratulating his daughter. “I know you do,” he said. He placed a single finger on her forehead, tracing the scar down to her nose with a feather-light touch. “I see the proof of your preparation. You earned this in my service. Let me tell you something, Kerian: when people stare at you, they do not stare because they see a beautiful woman disfigured. They stare because they’ve never seen a hero before.”
His words were so unexpected, they caught her entirely off-guard. Bands of steel closed on Kerian’s chest, and she let out a single sob before she could stop it. Tears blurred her vision, and she blinked them back. He spoke as if he could hear her fears, her memories, her heart…and he probably could. There had never been a Reader as powerful as the Emperor of the Aurelian Empire.
None of the other Consultants made a sound.
He clasped her by the arms. “You have made me proud, Kerian. Do so again, and accompany us to the Garden. I’d like to meet these three in person.”
He strode between the lines of kneeling Consultants, looking neither left nor right, his Imperial Guard clanking along behind him. Kerian followed, never questioning how he knew the way.
The Emperor knew everything.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Soulbound draw their power from a Vessel—an Awakened object, usually unobtrusive and small, that provides them with the abilities of an Elder or a Kameira. If you must engage a Soulbound in battle, first identify their Vessel. Destroy it if possible, and keep it from them if not.
If you cannot identify their Vessel, retreat.
-Strategic advice from the original order of Gardeners
(Excerpt stored in the Consultant’s Guild archives)
Jyrine Tessella Marten stood on the stern deck of The Testament, only yards from Shera, with bright green flame in each hand. The hem of her white nightgown drifted in the night breeze, brown hair blowing behind her.
As she scrambled away from another lash of flame, skin seared by the heat of the nearby fireball, Shera couldn’t help but notice the symbols tattooed on Shera’s left ankle. They seemed to crawl all the way up the left side of the woman’s body, ending on the left of her neck, under her chin.
There was something significant about those symbols that tugged at Shera’s memory, some cultural detail that was supposedly important. Was it Vandenyas? As a child, Shera had met a man with similar markings. Where was it?
She couldn’t remember. And Jyrine certainly wasn’t giving her any time to think.
“I won’t let you kill us,” Jyrine hissed, whipping green flame at Shera’s head. That was much better—it was easier to duck a strike aimed at the head. If Jyrine had been aiming at her center of gravity, Shera would have died by now. Fortunately for her, it seemed Jyrine was unused to her powers as a Soulbound.
And, for some reason, the other woman hadn’t raised the alarm. As soon as Jyrine screamed, Shera would have no choice but to abandon the mission and retreat. But as long as Jyrine insisted on a fight, Shera had a chance.
“Who are you?” Jyrine asked, in a loud whisper. “A Consultant?”
Now, that was surprising. Very few people in the Empire knew for sure that the Consultants actually had an order of assassins. Most people knew the rumor, but there should be only a handful of people in the entire world capable of connecting ‘an assassin in black’ with the Consultant’s Guild.
Shera flicked a spade in Jyrine’s direction, sending steel spinning toward the Soulbound. Jyrine made a sweeping gesture with her hand, and green fire blasted the spade off-course.
The woman still hadn’t called for help. So maybe Shera could talk her way out of this situation.
“Let’s agree to go our separate ways,” Shera said calmly. “You might not believe me, but you’re in no danger from me.” She didn’t whisper, though she kept her voice low—people didn’t realize that whispers actually caught more attention than simply speaking quietly. An ordinary voice was often best for stealth.
For some reason, the remark seemed to anger Jyrine further. Her earring shone like an emerald star, and she whipped both hands forward. Darts of flame licked at Shera’s sides, and it took all her training to leap, duck, and sidestep each strike.
Of course, she returned some attacks of her own.
Every time she dodged, she pulled a shear or a needle from the pouch at her side—grabbing weapons based on instinct and reflex rather than conscious decision—pitching them in Jyrine’s direction. None of them struck flesh, but they were able to keep the Soulbound’s attention divided enough to allow Shera to escape unscathed.
“Your time’s up,” Jyrine said, still speaking in a harsh whisper. She had started to breath heavily, and a sheen of sweat showed on her forehead. “Our family will lead this world forward into a new future.”
Shera pulled her shear, slapping a slow-moving fireball aside. The invested bronze of her blade held, but the fire seared her arm even through the sleeve of her blacks. “Our family?” Shera asked, but Jyrine didn’t hear her.
Fine.
If she wanted a fight, Shera could oblige her.
She rushed forward, dodging a whip of green flame and slashing at Jyrine’s side. Her knife bit flesh, but too shallow—Jyrine counterattacked and Shera instantly flattened herself to the deck. Fire rushed over her head, and she hurled a spade from her prone position, trying to catch Jyrine in the neck.
The strike missed, and Shera was forced back, stepping to the side to avoid another lash of flame.
“I’m not here for you,” Shera said again, mostly as a distraction. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to go back to sleep.”
“I won’t let you get what you want,” Jyrine whispered. “Time’s almost up. That which sleeps will soon wake.”
That which sleeps will soon wake.
The words slammed into Shera’s gut, and she hesitated. The missio
n she thought she understood splintered and re-formed into a strange landscape. What was a member of the Sleepless doing here? Was she here to oversee the retrieval of the Heart of Nakothi? Maybe to steal it before Naberius could get it?
That didn’t make sense. Jyrine had been married to Calder Marten for almost two years, according to the file, and had traveled with him for long before that.
What was going on?
Shera’s shocked hesitation could have been fatal, but Jyrine hadn’t moved. Her eyes were wide, staring at the lower deck as though she’d seen her own death.
Shera let out a deep breath and withdrew a non-lethal needle, closing the distance between her and Jyrine in one burst of speed.
The motion shocked Jyrine out of her paralysis, and she brought her burning hands up, but Shera had already moved. She pulled the needle out of Jyrine’s neck.
Anticipating what would happen next, Shera grabbed Jyrine and hauled her to one side.
Jyrine had been staring at someone down there on the deck. If Urzaia had woken up, he would surely have attacked by now, and the sight of Naberius wouldn’t have stunned the woman so much. There was only one person she could have seen: the captain of The Testament, Calder Marten.
And his first action, upon seeing his wife stabbed, would be to try and shoot the killer.
Sure enough, a pistol cracked an instant later, bullet buzzing by Shera’s cheek.
Without pause, Shera shoved Jyrine overboard.
It would have been more merciful to stab her, most likely, but Shera had acted in the moment and seized the opportunity. With the paralyzing agent in her, Jyrine would remain fully conscious as she drowned. So long as she died.
At the edge of her hearing, a familiar whine grew in volume. A Waverider, on standby, mounted by a local Mason. He must have seen the fight on the ship and come to give her an early exit.
Now, how am I going to complete this mission?
The ship creaked and came to life, rope uncoiling and launching itself at her neck.
Shera had been prepared for this possibility—Navigators had the uncanny ability to control their ships. One of the Architects back on the Gray Island proposed that each Navigator was actually a Soulbound tied to their ship, but it was difficult to prove that theory. All Shera knew for sure was that Calder Marten was awake, and he could control the ship as part of his body.
So her only chance of escaping, let alone killing Naberius, was to neutralize Calder.
She ducked the rope and dropped from the stern deck, facing Calder.
He stood shirtless in front of her, his bright red hair practically glowing, a pistol in his left hand and a sheathed blade on his hip. He tossed his pistol aside and pulled his cutlass, flicking the blade at Shera with more speed than she’d anticipated. The file suggested his skill as a swordsman was ‘Moderate,’ but she thought that information may have been out of date.
She turned his first strike, and his second, but soon he was pressing her back. It was to be expected. The shears of the Gardeners were not meant to hold their own against the superior reach of a sword.
Her back hit the door of the cabin, and the blade caught her forearm, slicing flesh.
Shera realized she was in lethal danger, and her thoughts turned cold.
She was letting herself be shackled by her reluctance to kill. Now was not the time for hesitation.
One more time, she slapped the sword aside with her knife, but this time she moved forward. It was risky; if he had anticipated her, he could run her through the heart with little trouble.
But his eyes widened in surprise, and she buried a needle in his arm.
One down.
As Calder collapsed, she walked past him. Now she wouldn’t have to worry about the ship, or the Elderspawn chained beneath it. Along with the Izyrian gladiator, that was the two greatest threats neutralized.
Now, where was Naberius?
A Heartlander, for some reason dressed in a full white suit and a broad white hat, leveled a pistol inches from her nose.
Not worth a thought. She ducked, swept a kick at the man’s knees, and moved forward as his shot went wide.
A roar shattered the night, and Shera knew the truth without looking: Urzaia Woodsman had recovered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him scoop up a black hatchet in each hand and charge straight at Shera.
Her years of training as a Gardener, everything that Maxwell had ever taught her, and her own survival instinct all screamed that she should run. But at that moment, Naberius Clayborn stepped out onto the deck. He stood next to the mast, a blanket around his shoulders, and a cocky smile on his handsome face.
Lucan’s freedom stood there, daring her to attack.
So she did.
She bolted across the deck, shear in her right hand. He held a pistol, but he only had one shot. She was confident that she could kill him before he killed her.
His eyes left her, crawling up the mast. His smile bloomed into a full-blown grin. “Too late,” he said.
The warning cut through her focus, and she slid to a halt. Just in time.
The Silent One, Tristania, fell from the mast. As the file indicated, she was sheathed head-to-toe in bandages, with a brown coat settling around her like an eagle’s wings. A dark whip fell with her, one end clutched in her fist.
Her Soulbound Vessel.
She snapped the whip, and Shera tossed herself to the side even more quickly than she’d run from the pistol. The file had been very clear about this Silent One’s capabilities.
“Soulbound to the Awakened tail of a Stormwing. Extremely dangerous. Approach only with great caution.”
Where the point of the whip struck, a white explosion blasted the air like a lightning strike.
Naberius stepped up beside his partner, smiling like the marble bust of a historical hero. “I can promise you safe conduct if you are willing to have a civilized discussion. Whatever your contract is, I can beat it.”
Behind her, Urzaia was still clutching his hatchets. The man in white was reloading his pistol, off to her left. In front of her, Naberius stood with a gun in his hand, and his guardian had prepared her whip.
At last, Shera admitted that the mission had failed. It was time to escape.
Reluctantly, she closed her left hand around the grip of her second shear. She hated drawing it. The weapon seemed to laugh at her.
Naberius laughed. “If you choose to fight, I can at least promise you a good show. We even have a professional gladiator here, don’t we, Urzaia?”
The big man said nothing, but she could feel his footsteps echoing over the deck.
No time to waste. Shera leaped straight at Tristania.
Without missing a beat, the woman flicked her whip. Crackling with light, the end flashed toward Shera’s head. If it made contact with her skin, the force of this Soulbound Vessel would blast her entire head to pieces.
Shera struck the whip with her left-hand blade. In the distance, she thought she heard a shrill, cruel laugh.
Both of her shears were invested with years of Intent from generations of Gardeners, but the weapon at her left was special. Lucan said it bore heavier Intent than any other weapon on the Gray Island.
When a blade of such powerful Intent met a Soulbound Vessel in battle, the two powers clashed.
In this case, the flash of light from the Stormwing’s tail flared like a newborn star. Heat seared Shera’s entire left side, as though she’d stuck her arm in a pot of boiling water.
And she was the only one on her deck to squeeze her eyes shut in time.
Everyone else shouted out, blind, and Shera dashed for the side. Even through her eyelids, the light still left spots on her vision, and she could only see well enough to toss herself over the railing.
She struck the water only feet from the Mason and his Waverider.
When she surfaced, trying to keep a grip on both her shears while still treading water, the Mason reached out and hauled her onto the back of the Kameira.
Jyrine hung limp in front of her, between the two Consultants. As the Waverider sped off, Shera pressed two fingers to the woman’s throat. Alive.
“You pulled her out of the water,” she said to the Mason, raising her voice so that she could be heard over the churning whine of the Kameira’s speed.
“Should I put her back?” he asked.
Shera almost shoved Jyrine into the ocean herself, but Lucan’s voice stopped her. “Death is too permanent,” he would have said. “We shouldn’t kill, if we don’t have to. It closes too many options.”
So Shera decided to leave Jyrine Tessella Marten alive. Maybe the woman would be useful for something.
But her second passenger didn’t distract Shera from the unpleasant weight in her gut.
She wasn’t used to failure.
~~~
Shera made it back to the Island almost unconscious and sheathed in pain from head to toe. She was taken to a room in the infirmary even before she had the chance to report.
The Council of Architects had seemed…perplexed, upon being confronted with Jyrine. They couldn’t understand why Shera hadn’t killed the woman, but they were unwilling to order her execution themselves. They didn’t want to lose a potential source of information about the Sleepless cult and their cabal of leaders.
So they left Jyrine alone in prison, where she ended up in the cell next to Lucan. That was justice for you; now Jyrine would get to spend more time with Lucan than Shera did.
Yala, surprisingly, was perfectly happy upon hearing of Shera’s failure. Perhaps seeing Shera exhausted and covered in burns did something for her mood, because she even smiled.
“I could have told you it wouldn’t work,” she said, “but at least you survived. We can’t afford to lose anyone in a time like this, even you.”
Shera wasn’t sure the last part was strictly necessary, but she kept her mouth shut. Mostly because it hurt to move her lips, as though she’d suffered a bad sunburn. When had her mouth gotten burned?