by Jaime Castle
JAIME CASTLE
WEB OF EYES
©2018 JAIME CASTLE
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the authors.
Published by Aethon Books LLC. Manufactured by Createspace.
Print and eBook formatting, cartography, and cover design by Steve Beaulieu. Artwork provided by Fabian Saravia.
All characters in this book are ficticious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Pantego/The Buried Goddess Saga characters, character names, and the distinctive likenesses thereof are property Aethon Books.
All rights reserved.
Contact us at www.jaimecastle.com
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More books in the series:
Web of Eyes
Winds of War (coming March 2018)
Queen of Glass (coming April 2018)
WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT WEB OF EYES:
"Fantastic world building and masterful prose. I hope to see much more from this literary partnership. Definitely a must read for fantasy fans." —Brian D. Anderson, bestselling author of The Godling Chronicles
This book is dedicated to:
Oliver—may there never be “piders” in your closet.
PROLOGUE
A YEAR AGO…
AN ILL KING BRINGS CIRCLING WOLVES.
Sir Uriah Davies, Wearer of White, and Sworn Protector of the Glass Kingdom had been living by those words since the King’s health declined. After decades of war, uniting the kingdoms of Pantego under the light of Iam, the one true God, the body of Liam the Conqueror had finally started failing.
His condition was kept quiet as long as possible, but his absence from assemblies brought whispers from all corners. Angry, envious people spoke in darkness about changing winds. For four years Uriah had been silencing them, praying for the King Liam’s restoration.
But the King never got better.
It was a fitful, early winter night when he thrashed and moaned, unable to sleep, that Queen Oleander’s brother arrived in the capital city of Yarrington. He was foreign like she had been before the King claimed and raised her—a savage from the northern kingdom, Drav Cra.
Liam had long rejected his requests for audience, but now with the King barely able to speak, Redstar swept into the city to beseech his sister, claiming he sought food for his starving people. But Uriah knew better than to trust a man like him: a worshipper of false gods, drawing on the magics of Elsewhere as if they were a thing for mortals to wield.
Uriah listened at the Queen’s door to their hushed argument. It was not his place to eavesdrop, but with the King incapacitated, he found himself doing it more and more. Oleander, more important than ever, was young, rash and harsh as the tundra where she was born. Straining, he heard a clatter.
“This place has made you wicked, sister!” Redstar shouted, his voice growing closer. The door nearly smashed Uriah’s face, but he repositioned himself just in time.
Redstar glared, lips pursed in anger. Pale as snow, like his sister, only a dark red birthmark covered the left half of his face. It was said only one of the twin moons smiled on him at his birth, leaving him marked, malformed. Seeing him in person again, Uriah believed it.
“What are you looking at, Knight?” Redstar spat.
Uriah held his tongue. He had no love for the man.
Merely a boy when the King took Oleander, even then, Redstar was tempted by darkness. Uriah hadn’t forgotten the trek home when two of his own men went berserk, killing each other, and Redstar was discovered in his yurt, holding a piece of his sister’s hair, blood covering his hands
In spite of his hatred for magic—especially dark, blood magic—King Liam spared him because of his relation to Oleander.
“This way, my Lord,” Uriah said, gesturing to Redstar and biting back disdain.
He escorted Redstar back to the guest chamber where he would stay until morning, then retired to his own quarters. But he couldn’t sleep.
An ill king brings circling wolves. It echoed in his mind.
So, instead of lying awake, listening to the moans of his King as Oleander struggled to feed him stew, he returned to the guest wing. When midnight arrived, his patience rewarded him. Uriah hid, then followed Redstar’s glowing torch as he crept through the dark halls of the castle.
His face screwed in disgust when Redstar turned. It wasn’t a torch; the man’s raised hand was wreathed in flame. Magic.
Uriah edged toward a corner, peeking around to see Redstar stop outside the door of the King and Queen’s only son. Pi was a weak and scrawny, but sweet boy—a kindhearted and worthy heir to Liam’s great kingdom. Uriah had only just begun to teach him the ways of the sword, but unlike his father, he would rather bury his head in books.
Redstar raised his hand to the lock. It slid open without even a touch.
“Pi,” Uriah whispered, rushing to the door as Redstar slipped through. He listened for a moment but heard nothing. Lowering his shoulder, he burst in to find Redstar looming over the sleeping boy, whispering in his ear.
“Step away,” Uriah demanded.
“You should consider how you address the brother of your Queen,” Redstar replied, voice as calm as ever, like the world was his playground. His eyes rose to meet Uriah’s, mouth curled into a dark grin. There was nothing in Pantego Uriah hated more than the warlocks of the northern tundra.
“You should have stayed in your quarters.”
“I decided I should leave early. Can’t an uncle say a proper goodbye to his nephew?” He drew up the blankets covering the Prince.
The boy groaned, rolled and pulled the blankets close.
Something was missing. The boy was never seen without the crude Drav Cra doll his mother had presented him on his birthing day. An old custom of the people she’d left behind, who believed the idols made in their likeness contained a piece of their very souls. Pagan mumbo jumbo that the King had only allowed because it appeased his wife.
It was worthless, but Pi slept with that doll every night. Presently, Redstar had it clutched in his right hand.
“In the name of Liam and the one true God, return that to your Prince at once,” Uriah said. “I don’t care who you are.”
“The Queen forgets her own people.” He ran his hand across the boy’s cheek. “Yet still she made him this?”
Uriah drew his sword. “I won’t ask again.”
“You would threaten a member of the royal family?”
“There is no royalty in you, heathen.” Uriah edged closer, making sure to keep a safe distance. The stained glass of the arched window at his back rattled, rain driving sideways with the wind.
“Our Lady and her chosen people are tired of being forgotten. Your Queen is no longer one of us. It’s time she stopped pretending.”
“Now!” Uriah extended his sword.
It nearly touc
hed Redstar’s throat but the man ignored it. He regarded the doll, then the Prince. His smirk widened. “Farewell my young Prince. We’ll be together again soon.”
Uriah saw the glint of a dagger as Redstar reached into his robes. He knew harming the Queen’s brother wouldn’t be overlooked, but he wasn’t paid to think; only to protect. He lunged, swung at the traitor, but his blade met only air.
Redstar was unexpectedly fast, sliding across the floor and catching Uriah’s side. The dagger drew a shallow cut, but it was enough to slow Uriah. He spun his blade in a wide arc, but Redstar was already by the window.
“Redstar!” Uriah roared as the warlock smashed the window with his elbow.
Wind and rain like ice sliced in, forcing Uriah to cover his face. Pi’s eyes sprung open as if roused from a nightmare, clutching his blanket, frantic in search of his doll.
Redstar performed an exaggerated stage bow, then fell backward. Uriah reached for his leg, grabbing only silk before the Queen’s brother flipped back over the sill and into the night.
Uriah stuck his head into the driving rain and stared down the castle’s tallest spire. There was no falling body, no corpse lying in the courtyard.
“Sir, what happened! I heard raised voices.”
Uriah whipped around to see one of his men, another of the King’s Shield standing in the doorway, claymore drawn.
“Torsten,” Uriah said. “Rouse the Queen. The Prince has been robbed.”
Torsten shifted from the frightened Prince to Uriah. “What did he take?”
“The boy’s soul…”
I
The Thief
Present…
“WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE between a Westvale whore and a dwarf?” Haam asked from behind Twilight Manor’s bar, white shirt stained from a day's work—although he’d likely been wearing it for much longer. “One’s short, fat, and has a beard. The other lives in the tunnels of the Dragon’s Tail.”
The motley company surrounding him erupted in laughter, slapping the bar and spilling pints all over the faded wood floor. Laughing especially hard was the scruffy, red-haired dwarf who’d just hopped down from his stool.
Whitney Fierstown didn’t make a sound, just sat alone at a corner table, nursing an ale. His finger drew circles around the rim of his earthenware mug, mindlessly keeping time with the bard strumming his lute by the hearth.
The Twilight Manor was fuller than usual—the way taverns in the capital got when the bay was full of trade ships. But this wasn’t Yarrington.
The tavern sat in the middle of a cobbled square in the quaint farming village of Troborough. Whitney stared through the dirty, cloudy window beside his table, the same as he had each night for a fortnight. The village was different that evening, the streets bustling and full of new vigor. It wasn't unusual in Yarrington to see giants and dwarves, or even the Shesaitju all in one place, but Troborough didn't see that kind of activity except in times like these when large merchant caravans passed through carrying people from all over.
Whitney watched a particularly scrawny boy who reminded Whitney of himself not too many years past. Just as slight but incredibly nimble, playing swords on those same streets with his only friend Sora. The boy parried and dodged, not just swinging the stick but allowing himself to be stabbed and prodded on occasion as well—the sign of a boy preparing himself for the tough realities of life. Unconquerable heroes were the stuff of myth and legend and any man Whitney had ever met who fancied himself one found his head on the wrong end of a spike.
He smirked and turned back to see the barkeep and his attentive crowd still laughing and chiding. Haam had tended the Manor as long as Whitney could remember and hadn’t changed a bit in the years since he’d been back, save for a rounder belly. He must have been thrilled to have so many visitors.
The inn served as the center of all things social in Troborough, which was rarely all too much. Until tonight, it had just been Whitney and few others for the past fortnight, pontificating, playing cards, and drinking. The farmers would talk about their yield or share rumors of far-off places none of them would ever visit. But Whitney loved to hear the retired war heroes spin their yarns from their service days in the Glass Army—they were all hog’s piss, he knew, but it was fun all the same.
Just last evening, Carlo, a hulking mass of muscle and sinew, told of his days in the Panping War. King Liam himself had led the charge into the Empire east of the Jarein Gorge and the Walled Lake. The Dwarves of Brotlebir fought side by side with The Glass Kingdom, bringing lasting peace to the kingdoms for the first time in centuries.
Whitney searched the room. For once, Carlo wasn't there—which accounted for the lack of brawls. But along with the caravan came new stories, ones Whitney had never heard but felt all-too-familiar.
The bard had just started one such song. Hearing a traveling minstrel tell tales of far-off wonders always made Whitney’s eyes roll. It was all stuff he’d come to realize only existed in their flowery songs. He knew now, the world was nothing more than a larger view of the same forest. Same lady, different dress.
“What’s got you sour, boy? You look as dissatisfied as my wife.” Whitney hadn’t even seen the red-haired dwarf sit down in the chair opposite him, grinning like a madman with his yellow teeth and an eye looking in each direction. Red whiskers, like straw poking out of a barn pile, covered most of his face.
Dwarves… Only thing they’re good for is their treasure chests.
“Just tired,” Whitney said out loud.
He peered longingly back to his ale, the heady foam finally receding. He was never one to back down from a verbal spat, but the dwarf’s question was one he’d been asking himself since he arrived in Troborough. He’d lost track of the years he’d spent roaming Pantego, thieving and lying his way to being wanted in more cities than he had fingers. Eventually, every score in every land felt the same as the last. Some rare treasure no Lord or lady even needed. He missed the challenge.
“Tired?” the dwarf scoffed. “What’s a pale farmboy like you got to be tired about?”
Whitney glanced up only with his eyes. If there was one thing he couldn’t stomach, it was being lumped into the same meager vocation as his worthless father. Whitney had seen things nobody in Pantego could imagine, made a name for himself coast to coast.
“Farmboy?” He rose from his seat. “You hear that?” Whitney said loudly to anybody who might be listening. “I think this little half-pint, rock-eating dwarf just called me a ‘farmboy.’”
The Twilight Manor went quiet—not dead silent, but enough for Whitney. Several patrons turned their attention to him.
“Aye, I did.” The dwarf slammed his mug on the table, ale splashing over the side. “Did I st-st-stutter?”
“Just making sure you were talking to me. You dwarves spend so much time down in the dark, sometimes I think you can’t see straight.” Whitney hiccuped, using his chair for support.
“At least we can hold our liquor, farmboy.”
“You really don’t know who I am, do you? Tell him Haam!”
“Here we go again,” Haam grumbled. He threw his towel over his shoulder and turned toward some mugs needing filling.
“Okay… I’ll handle it.”
After a few tries, Whitney climbed onto the table and stared down his nose at the dwarf. It made the burly little man’s features darken in anger. If Whitney had learned anything years ago while slumming in the subterranean Dwarven Kingdom of Brotlebir, it was that dwarves hated when a human drew attention to how short they were. That, and the things they made from gold were gold all the way through.
“My name is Whitney Fierstown! Yes, yes,” he said in practiced rhythm, performing an exaggerated bow, “the same Whitney Fierstown of Westvale fame. He who stole the Sword of Grace from right under Lord Theroy’s nose while the right bugger slept face-down in a puddle of his own spit. Had myself a throw with his lady daughter that evening as well.”
Whitney’s laugh was joined by a few oth
ers. He hopped down from the table, his voice growing louder after he steadied himself from nearly slipping in a puddle of the dwarf’s spilled ale.
“The Mischievous, Master of Mayhem,” he continued. “The very same credited for single-handedly delivering the Splintering Staff out of the hands of the Whispering Wizards. You know them, dwarf? Whitney Fierstown, Savior of the Sullen and Surly—that's you.” Again, he looked down at the dwarf. "Hope of the Hopeless and Helpless. Thief of all thieves. The Filcher Fantastic himself.”
Loud whoops and whistles erupted from the bar. Whitney bowed again, looking up to lock eyes with the fuming dwarf, a humorless smile playing at the edges of his mouth.
"And you call me a farmboy?” Whitney asked. “Someone get this sad dwarf another ale. He’s either too drunk or not drunk enough.”
The dwarf appeared thoroughly unimpressed. Whitney rounded the table, his gaze never leaving the dwarf. He plopped back into his chair, grabbed his ale, and kicked his feet up on the table.
There were a few scattered hand claps before the tavern returned to their business. Two weeks in the same tavern burning through all the autlas he had, Whitney wondered how many times they’d heard him boast the same feats. The bard started plucking his lute again. The barmaids made their rounds, dodging the grabby hands of several toothless men. Haam continued polishing mugs.
The dwarf calmly stroked his beard once, then took his turn climbing the table, even though the thing was nearly the whole height of him.
“And I be Grint Strongiron,” he said. “Son of a drunken wife-beater. Brother of a coward. My wife’s uglier than the South end of a horse-headed north. I got seven fingers, nine toes and enough spawn to start a small war.”