“I owed Cabral a favor. That debt is now paid.”
Cabral’s smile faded. He knelt before the woman. “I thank you for it, Elegance,” he said.
Astrid blinked, her weariness and the horrors she had just seen almost—almost, as Knot’s wide eyes bored into her, burning red, his mouth moving—forgotten. Cabral, the most powerful vampire she had ever met, had just knelt to another. And her friends…
“My friends are not dead?” Astrid asked.
“It was not real,” Cabral said, rising. “But I want you to understand something, my dear.” His eyes flashed, a surge of red light brightening the room. “It was not real, but it could be. I could do that to you. I will do that to you.”
Astrid stared dumbly at him. Relief siphoned through the stark grief that had consumed her on her hectic, wild run through the tunnel. Relief, and with it, the slightest hint of confidence.
Astrid did not hesitate in showing it off.
“You have me, Cabral,” Astrid said. “But you cannot hurt my friends. They are more powerful than you know.”
“The ex-Nazaniin?” Cabral asked with a smirk. “His psimantic power is spent, and he is nothing without it.”
What Cabral said was true, but Knot’s power wasn’t what Astrid had had in mind. Cabral might be able to best Knot, but not Cinzia and Jane when the power of Canta settled upon them.
“Do not underestimate my power and patience, little girl. I will take away everything you love. The vision you saw was just a hint of what is to come.”
Laughter bubbled up from deep inside of Astrid, and she took pleasure in Cabral’s puzzled look. It had just dawned on her that she should have known better: Knot and Cinzia dwarfed Cabral; their destinies went beyond the squabbles of vampire lords. And Cinzia and Jane’s ability to avoid assassination was truly uncanny.
“You cannot touch my friends,” Astrid said. She did not say it as a challenge, or even as a warning, but a simple statement of fact. “You have me, but you can do nothing to them.”
Cabral’s red eyes bored into her. “You misunderstand me, my dear,” he said. “I’ve looked into hurting these human friends of yours, and believe it or not, I’ve come to the same conclusion as you have. They are untouchable.”
Cabral took a step toward her, and an involuntary tremor worked its way down Astrid’s spine.
“But you said it yourself. I have you, my dear. And to take your ridiculous friends away, you are all I need.”
Astrid did not respond. Cabral knew exactly how to find the source of her hope and pierce a hole straight through it.
“I can see you do not understand. You’ve always been a step behind, haven’t you, so allow me to explain it to you.
“Now that I have you, things will be different. You will not be a part of the new Fangs I form, not for many years at least. You will not be a servant, either. No, Astrid, I will take no more chances with you. You will be my prisoner. You will remain confined for quite some time—I don’t know, a half-dozen decades at least, perhaps a hundred years or more depending on your attitude—but certainly long enough for your friends, for everyone you know and love today, to die.”
Cabral glanced at Elegance.
“That is, unless I’m granted another option first.”
Astrid felt the hope drain away completely. Cabral could keep her here forever if he wanted to. Even if he died, she would remain here. He could take away everything she loved, and he didn’t even have to harm them to do it. While Knot, Cinzia, and the others could protect themselves from physical harm, there was one thing all mortals were vulnerable to.
Time.
Astrid’s legs collapsed beneath her, and she crumpled to the ground.
13
INSIDE THE BLACKGUARD INN, near central Triah, Knot took a draught from a large mug of ale. He didn’t know if it was his encounter with Sirana the other night, the fact he hadn’t seen Astrid in a few days, or something else altogether, but there was enough on his mind that he actually wanted to dull his senses for a spell.
The atmosphere of the Blackguard Inn was exasperatingly jovial this evening. A lutist had struck up a tune as he’d walked in, and musician after musician had joined in until what seemed an entire bloody orchestra was playing. A few of the patrons had taken to dancing in the open space in the middle of the common room. Spirits were high, and laughter the most common sound.
For Knot, it was intolerable. The Blackguard was the seventh inn he’d been to that day, and still he hadn’t had any luck. He’d been asking after rumors of the shamans, who Astrid had said might be able to help Winter, but no one seemed to know anything about such people.
And Astrid hadn’t shown herself for three days. He’d begun to worry the first night she hadn’t returned to their tent in the Odenite camp. He told himself again that Astrid could take care of herself. She’d disappeared a time or two, and had always come back. But he was afraid for her this time, more than he’d ever been before.
“You look like you need another drink, mate.”
Knot didn’t raise his eyes. He’d made note of this particular man the moment he walked into the inn: blond, average height, broad-shouldered. A dagger at his belt. His gait and mannerisms were strikingly familiar; it had taken Knot a few moments to realize they reminded him of himself. But he knew this man anyway.
Knot had seen him in his dreams.
“You’re Nazaniin,” Knot muttered.
“Canta’s bloody bones. She told you I’d be coming, didn’t she?”
“Sirana might have mentioned something,” Knot said, “but I’d have recognized you anyway.”
“She could have done me the same favor.”
For the first time, their eyes met.
“You’re too pretty to be a fighter,” Knot grunted.
The man chuckled at that. “Aye, so they tell me. The old you would know why.”
Just as Knot kept his appearance as nondescript and unremarkable as possible, the other man’s attractiveness was a sort of camouflage. Knot felt his own unobtrusiveness was far superior to the ostentatious look of this Nazaniin.
“What do you mean ‘you’d have recognized me anyway’? Do you know who I am?”
“No. Just seen you in my dreams.”
Silence stretched between them.
“My name is Code,” the other finally said. When Knot shrugged, Code added, “That doesn’t mean anything to you? Jog something in the memory?”
“It doesn’t.” Knot took another swig of his ale. “That hurt your feelings?”
Code’s mouth flattened. “If you’re a completely different person, you could’ve done us all a favor and left his attitude behind.”
“Don’t take it personally,” Knot muttered. “Just having a bad day.”
Code signaled the innkeeper, and asked the man for another mug of ale.
Knot could buy his own drinks. He shook his head, about to say as much, but Code cut him off.
“It’s for me, mate. Don’t get your knickers in a squeeze.”
Knot almost chuckled at that, but stopped himself just in time.
“So we knew each other before?”
“Aye, we did. Had sort of a rivalry going on, actually.”
Knot snorted. “I imagine that was all in your mind, lad. I ain’t the type to have rivals.”
“You’re right, you weren’t.” Code grinned. “Not until you met me.”
“And you were a real challenge for me, then? Easy to say when I have no memory of it.”
“I’m in your dreams,” Code said. “How many people have you dreamt about, from before? I can’t imagine it’s many.”
Knot frowned. “A lot of people have come through my dreams,” he said. “More than you could imagine.” He’d killed hundreds in his dreams, and seen many more besides.
But the lad was right. Only a few had graced his dreams more than once, let alone on a recurring basis. This man, Code, was one of the few. Sirana one of the others.
“You reme
mber me for a reason. I never liked you, La—” Code stopped himself. “Knot. I never liked the man you were before. Lathe and I did not get along. But I respected him, and he—”
“You think just because the person who inhabited this body—”
Code shot him a meaningful glance, and Knot caught it immediately. He and Code had been speaking in hushed tones, but Knot had begun to raise his voice. He hadn’t really caught the attention of anyone else in the inn yet, but he certainly would if he started shouting about swapping bodies and sifts and the like.
Knot took a deep breath, then spoke again, more quietly. “Just because the person who lived in this house before me respected you, don’t mean I will.”
“He tolerated me,” Code said. “I learned a lot from him, whether he liked it or not.”
“I’m not the psimancer he was. If you think you’ll—”
“Will you stop? I know you’re not him.”
“Then why are you here?” Knot asked.
“If Sirana already mentioned we’d approach you, you know why.”
Knot exhaled. Sirana hadn’t mentioned specifically why, only that someone would approach him, and that Knot should let it happen. Knot had no illusions that he could trust her, or Code.
“I must be a valuable connection to you,” Knot said. “But why should I let you have that connection? What allegiance do I owe the Nazaniin?”
“None,” Code said quickly. “But if you let me… Goddess, I don’t even care about being your friend. If you just share information with me, keep me updated—”
Knot chuckled, though the sound was completely humorless. “I won’t spy on the Odenites for you. If your leader thinks that’s what I’m going to do for him, he can shove his head up his own ass.”
“We could help you, should you need it.”
“You sent a cotir to kill Jane Oden,” Knot said. “I think you’ve helped us enough, don’t you?”
“We won’t do that again,” Code said. “You have my word on that, and you have Kosarin’s as well.”
“Forgive me if I don’t put much stock in Nazaniin honor.”
Code sighed. “We can use one another as a resource. This could help the Odenite cause.”
Truth was, Knot didn’t care for Jane’s vision of Canta’s Church more than any other—but she did want to stop the Nine Daemons, and he cared about protecting the Odens and their followers while they did that.
The Nazaniin might help that cause. Their knowledge and information network could prove invaluable.
Knot leaned closer to Code, lowering his voice. “What of the Nine?” he asked. “What do you know of them?”
The blood drained from Code’s face. “If you want to talk about that, we should go somewhere else,” Code said. “I’ve tangled with the Nine more than once. They need to be stopped.”
Knot nodded slowly. If they had that goal in common, at least, perhaps there was some business they could do together.
“One more thing,” Code added. “I’m a variant psimancer. I take faltira to access my abilities. I’ve gotten to a place where I can use faltira without suffering the addictive consequences.”
Knot narrowed his eyes. “You know of the shamans who say they can control it?”
Code nodded. “I do, and I know what helps and what doesn’t. I heard you’ve been looking for a solution for this particular problem—and I’ve also heard who it is you’re trying to aid. If rumors of that woman’s power are even fractionally true, we need to keep her as sane as possible. Without help, faltira will consume her, sooner or later.”
Knot chewed his cheek. It would not have been difficult for the Nazaniin to tail Knot from inn to inn, and gather what information he sought and infer why he sought it. Code could be saying this just to pacify him, to get him to comply.
But if there was hope for Winter, Knot wanted her to have it. He owed it to her.
14
Wyndric Ocean
“FOG ON THE OCEAN. A bad omen.”
Cova, empress of Roden, had known Garen Strongst was a superstitious man when she’d made him admiral. She hated to see it surface now.
He was right about the fog. From the Crown Conquest, the flagship of the Rodenese Navy, vision was limited. They were somewhere just south of the Roden–Khale border, about forty radials from the coast. The fog had come in with the sunset, and deepened through the night. Now, when the sun should be rising, Cova could see nothing but gray mist in all directions. Standing on the bow of the Crown and looking back, she could not even see the stern of her own ship, let alone the fleet following them. The scene was made eerier still by the awful silence that accompanied the fog. Other than the lapping of water against the ship, and the occasional order carried across the waves from her crew, there was no sound whatsoever.
The signal-officer, his flags useless in the mist, shouted instructions and coordinates to the ship next in the line.
Cova frowned. “Is that necessary? Should we not lie-to and wait for the fog to clear?”
“If you’ll forgive me, Your Grace—” The admiral’s condescending answer was interrupted by the arrival of a tall young man, who arrived with a salute. “What is it, Brakston?”
“The eyes in the nest above think they’ve seen masts,” the sailor reported. “Not our own. Both to port and starboard.”
“They think they’ve seen masts?” Strongst asked. “Have they or haven’t they?”
“It’s difficult to tell in the fog, sir, but—”
“Of course it’s difficult to tell in the fog. Until they’ve confirmed that these sightings of theirs are real, we do not deviate. We stay the course, Brakston.”
The signal-officer shouted again, and a distant shout from the ship behind them came in response.
Cova swore. “Shut that officer up! Caution is the order, Admiral. I’d prefer not to have my fleet ambushed.”
“Your Grace, I assure you—”
“If you’re not going to respect my office, you can stop calling me ‘Your Grace,’ Admiral.”
“I…”
Cova turned to Brakston. “Find the captain,” she said. “If Admiral Strongst will not do as I command, I’ll relieve him of his office and give it to someone else.”
Brakston saluted her, then rushed down the ladder to the main deck.
The admiral laughed nervously. “I assure you, Your Grace, that will not be necessary. I am happy to—”
“I don’t have time to argue with you, Strongst.” No more “Admiral.” She’d already made the decision. “We must be more careful—”
The ship shuddered beneath them, and a crash of splintering wood split the fog’s silence. The Crown Conquest swayed, leaning to starboard, and Cova gripped the rail to keep from losing her balance.
A smaller ship Cova did not recognize had rammed them. All she could make out in the fog were its crimson sails, and while Cova couldn’t see the ship figurehead, she could guess it was carved in the shape of a human skull.
Pirates.
Cova swore. It would be foolish to attack Cova’s entire fleet—she did not think all of the pirates in the Wyndric Ocean would amount to enough ships to take on her navy—but the fog provided them cover enough, and the Rodenese Navy enough confusion, that they could cause some damage.
“Tensen,” Cova shouted to her Reaper captain, “don’t let them board!”
A series of smaller shudders made the deck beneath her tremble once more. Grappling hooks.
Tensen, a tall, sinewy man nearby, began to relay orders to his Reapers—Roden’s elite fighters.
“First and second squad,” he shouted, “cut the grappling ropes! Don’t let them swarm us! Third squad, form an archery line, keep them down!”
But the ropes were not cut in time. A roar erupted from the side of the ship where the grapples had fallen; the sound of running feet and combat told her that, somewhere in the fog, a horde of wild, bloodthirsty men had streamed from the pirate ship onto the deck of the Crown Conquest. Her Re
apers were there to meet them, and the two forces collided with the sounds of crashing metal, shuffling feet on wood, guttural grunts and shouts, and the screams of the dying.
Goddess, how can anyone be dying yet? Cova wondered, feeling cold. The soldiers had only just joined in battle, and already she heard screams that could mean nothing else.
A form barreled up to her out of the mist, and every muscle in Cova’s body tensed. She took a step back, hand moving to the sword at her hip. She was proficient with the weapon, but no expert. And she had never been in a real battle before.
“Your Grace.” As the shape became clearer, she recognized the ship’s captain, Rakkar. “The ram hit us above the waterline. If we can pull away, we can salvage the ship.”
At least someone is competent on this vessel. “Thank you, Captain,” Cova said.
Rakkar saluted, and turned back to the deck, shouting orders at his sailors.
The mist had started to clear, and now Cova saw her initial fear at Rakkar’s approach had been unfounded. Her two Reaper guards, Flok and Grost, stood on either side of her still. They and a pair of two other guards took shifts following her everywhere she went on the ship, and stood guard outside her chambers at night. She had been annoyed by the practice at first, wondering why on earth she needed protection on her own ship full of her own soldiers, but now she was grateful for their presence.
Both men had weapons drawn, their dark blue tunics damp from the fog. Beneath that, their gray plate armor reflected a soft orange glow.
Cova turned immediately to see more pirates boarding the Crown Conquest, torches and weapons in hand.
“Third squad!” Tensen screamed over the battle sounds. “Focus on the torch-bearers!”
By now General Horas had joined her on the upper deck at the bow of the ship. Tensen commanded her Reapers, but Horas commanded her entire army. “Your Grace,” Horas said, breathless. “I’ve mobilized the forces belowdecks. Our numbers will soon overwhelm them, if nothing else.”
Cova nodded, still wary of the battle. She trusted her generals—more so than she trusted her ex-admiral, at least— but a thrill of simultaneous excitement and terror reverberated in her bones, unwilling to fade.
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