by Giles Carwyn
The palace was particularly festive tonight, perhaps due to the recent duel Leftblade had botched. She looked forward to rectifying that error, but Heidvell could wait. First things first.
She flipped her cowl up, covering her telltale braid. Normally she loved to be seen, stared at, adored, but not tonight. Tonight was a celebration for her greatest victory, and all she wanted to do was get to the one person in the world who could appreciate it.
Natshea had never felt so powerful, so beautiful, so fierce and deadly. She saw possibilities that had never been there before. Reaching inside her cloak, she drew her dagger and cut a quick line across her forearm. She gasped as the surge of power washed over her. She’d had a breakthrough during her mission and now, if she concentrated hard, she could spy on other people’s emotions, could feel their pain, their pleasure.
Sending her awareness before her, she scanned the crowd. She felt the sadness and isolation of a pathetic little lordling watching his latest fancy in the arms of another man. She felt the anger of the chief steward at an incompetent newcomer who had been hired at the last moment.
Practically skipping across the deck, she made her way through the late revelers and the ever-vigilant crew of the Floating Palace. She passed a pair of young lovers necking in the lee of a cabin, hidden from the soft torchlight, and she thought of that first moment when her old dueling master had touched her, so full of wretched guilt and false bravado as he pushed up her skirt. She thought of his final whimpers as he lay bleeding on the bed, the light fading from his eyes. Her former teacher’s eyes had actually turned pitch black by the time she was through with him. It was some delicious side effect of the Necani that she would have to ask Jesheks about.
With a grin stamped on her face, she paused at the bow of Lord Ardholtz’s ship and looked north into the vast darkness. She could hardly contain her joy at her liberation and there was still so much to learn, decades’ worth of knowledge to explore, one crimson drop at a time. She couldn’t imagine the intensity.
The best part was that she finally had a teacher, a man with a fearless, unwavering hand who would never lie to her, never run from her in fear of her gifts like the dead blade master had, calling her dirty, a freakish, broken thing.
Who is broken now, teacher? she thought, remembering his skin flayed open on the silken sheets. She’d actually seen his heart beating beneath his exposed ribs before the end.
With a flip of her head, she continued on to Glory of Summer, wending her way through a near riot on Munkholtz’s ship. They had run out of wine, and Munkholtz’s emaciated steward apologized repeatedly to the rowdy crowd.
Such frivolous people, she thought, living out their frivolous lives. But Jesheks was never frivolous. They would travel from country to country, growing stronger together. He would hurt her—she drew a delicious breath at the thought—and someday she would be ready to hurt him in return. He could not ignore her strength now.
One of Vinghelt’s guards, Farlan, blocked her path as she tried to cross the plank.
“The lord’s not to be disturbed tonight,” he said.
“I’m here to see the physician.”
The man shook his head. “Not tonight.”
“He’ll see me,” she assured him, hopping from the plank to the rail and leaping across the gap. “If you want to stop me, draw that sword of yours and see how you fare.”
He protested, but she ignored him and jumped through the open hatch, grabbing the ladder on the way down to break her fall. Skipping down the first flight of steps, she passed the galley, turned the corner, and slid down the final ladder to the lowest level of the ship. She stopped in front of Jesheks’s door, so familiar. How had she ever been afraid to pass through it that first time?
Plucking her dagger from its sheath, she flipped it, caught it, and prepared to stab it into the doorjamb. How happy would Jesheks be to hear that sound, never expecting her to succeed so quickly? He could probably already sense her joy through the door.
She stopped, the dagger hovering over her shoulder.
Smiling wide, she sheathed the blade. Of course.
No doubt he had tracked her with his magic. She would do the same with hers, show him what she had learned.
Putting light fingertips on the door, Natshea sent her awareness into the room—
Her eyes shot open, and she stumbled backward. Her smile vanished. It couldn’t be!
Forcing herself to send her awareness out again, she reached into the room like a child reaching into a hole full of spiders. Her master was…
Natshea couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, and she almost fell, grabbing a doorjamb across the hall to hold herself upright. That woman, Shara, was giving him pleasure. Sexual pleasure.
She closed her eyes and panted in the dark, but she could still feel the trembling of that whore in there, could feel the tingling in her body, and in Jesheks’s body, too.
She fled, staggering along the corridor and up the ladder. Boots thumped in the hall behind her, and she ducked into the ship’s galley. The boots followed, and she dived into a storeroom, slamming the door behind her. Her heavy breathing filled the dark room, and she tried to get her emotions under control. What was he doing? He had told her, had shown her…
“You realize, the moment you fear, the moment you long for, is never going to happen.”
His high-pitched voice reverberated in her head, pouring acid on what she had just seen.
Slumping down between two wine barrels, Natshea slammed her head back against the bulkhead. The pain blossomed, and she drank it in, slammed her head against the wall again.
How could he do it? He’d told her. He’d promised her. Was it all a lie? Everything he’d said? Everything she’d done?
“Bastard!” she screamed, leaping to her feet. She kicked over a wine cask, and it skidded across the room. She knocked over shelves, tore apart a sack of flour, shattered a butter churn.
Screaming, she leapt upon a wine barrel, driving the heel of her boot through the wooden staves. The barrel spilt open and its contents sloshed onto the floor.
The pantry door was flung open. Lanternlight blared into the dark little storeroom, and Vinghelt’s silhouette filled the doorway.
“By the tides, what are you—” he shouted, then recognized her. His eyes widened, then narrowed again. “What are you doing here? Are you crazy—”
Natshea drew her sword and lunged, slashing Vinghelt across the face, laying his cheek open to the bone. He shrieked, hands grappling at torn flesh as he backpedaled. He slipped and fell backward. She advanced, towering over the summer prince. The sight of his blood calmed her somehow. She turned her panting into long, even breaths.
Vinghelt rose to his knees, staring wide-eyed at his bloody hands. He pushed frantically at his cheek, trying to hold it in place. “My face!” he wailed. “My face!” He stared up at her, one eye almost pushed shut by the damage. “Are you insane?”
She raised her sword with a snarl on her lips. Vinghelt held one pathetic hand in front of himself as if he could block her blade with his arm. She drew her blade back to finish him, but she stopped, her face crinkled in disgust.
What was that horrible smell? Natshea looked at her boots. A puddle of yellow sludge crept around her heels, soaking into the wood.
Oil.
Natshea leveled her sword on Vinghelt again, but he scrabbled away, stumbling as he fled. She didn’t chase him.
Oil. Why was there whale oil on this boat? She turned, looking at the wine cask she had ruined. She watched as the dregs of the yellowish liquid dripped from the broken barrel. It crept across the floor and through the hatch to the lower level, seeping deeper into the ship. Slowly, she smiled.
“I have no sexual feelings for you whatsoever.”
Liar.
She looked at the lantern hanging overhead, fuzzy with dust and grease. Jumping atop the butcher block, she unhooked the lantern and crouched. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed the lantern into the stor
eroom. It shattered, and the oil ignited. She narrowed her eyes and turned her head away as a wave of heat whooshed out. Flames swept across the floor, following the oil out the doorway.
The air seared her, and she soaked it in, feeling the skin on her unprotected forearms and face bubble. She tried to master it, cycle it into her magic, make herself stronger, but it was too much.
Leaping from the table, she cleared half the room in one jump, landing on the burning floor just before the doorway. She slid on the slick wood through the doorway and leapt to the ladder. The flames surrounded her, but she flew up the rungs to the main deck in moments. She emerged in a plume of smoke, coughing and nearly blinded. Her clothes burned in a couple of places, and her oil-covered boots were still on fire. She shook the burning oil off, savoring the pain as it rushed through her, threatening to overwhelm her. A pillar of flame erupted from the main hatch, and the rigging was already starting to catch fire.
Burn, she thought. You and your whore will burn for your lies.
CHAPTER 35
Astor leapt from the skiff, stepping in the boiling surf as they dragged the boat onto the rocky shore. Without being told, his companions all helped lift the little craft and carried it up the beach. Running through the foggy darkness, they joined the others behind a clump of boulders. They stashed the boat out of sight, and Astor peered through the mists at the grim faces of his fellow Lightning Swords and the handful of Zelani who had joined them. No one looked forward to this night’s work, but each knew that it had to be done. The Heartstone belonged in Ohndarien. One could not continue without the other.
“Is that everyone?” Bendrick whispered, as Astor joined him in the darkness.
“I was the last,” Astor said, gritting his teeth against the pain from dunking his boots in the boiling bay.
Astor certainly had his doubts when they first saw the cursed island. He could not believe the Emperor would take the Heartstone here of all places, but the corrupted half snake had led them true. It had been a moment of agonizing decision when he realized that the serpent was taking them north, away from Ohohhom. But he’d made his call and stayed the course. Following the snake, they found the Emperor’s ships hidden by the mists within the boiling bay. Staying out of sight, they left their ship unattended around the far side of the island and approached quietly from the north as soon as night fell. If anyone found the boat, they might never leave this place.
“The Emperor is still aboard his ship,” Wasley-lani said, his eyes closed. “And…seventeen others.”
“Carriers?” Bendrick asked.
“Certainly, though exactly how many I cannot say. At least eight.”
“Arefaine?” Astor asked.
The Zelani paused, and his brow wrinkled. “No. She’s not there. Or she is hidden from my probing.”
Astor took a deep breath, kept his voice controlled. There was only one person whose location he really needed. “And Brophy?”
Wasley-lani stayed silent, then turned his face toward the island. “Not on the boat.” He pointed. “There. Atop those cliffs. He is not alone. There are many, many others up there, over a hundred.”
Bendrick hissed. “We have no hope against that many.”
“Then we’ll have to strike quick,” Astor said. “Before the alarm can be raised.”
“What about the Heartstone?” Bendrick asked. The other Lightning Swords stayed quiet, waiting for their orders.
“It’s there,” Wasley-lani said. He shuddered. “I can feel it seething with black emmeria. The Heartstone and two others. There’s so much of it.”
“Astor?” Bendrick turned to him.
“You lead the attack,” Astor said. “Strike hard. Strike fast. If they see reason, spare them. But don’t waste time with talk. Don’t hesitate if anyone stands in our way. No one would have stolen that foul magic without a black purpose in mind.”
Everyone nodded, their eyes sparkling. Leather creaked, and metal shifted. This was the moment they had waited for.
“Remember,” Bendrick told everyone. “Leave the stones to the Zelani. Nobody else touches them. You know what will happen to you.”
The Lightning Swords nodded.
“What about you?” Bendrick asked Astor.
“I will hold the canyon and cover our exit. If Brophy or any of the others farther inland come to the Emperor’s aid, I will delay them long enough for you to escape.”
“At least take a few swords with you,” Bendrick insisted.
Astor shook his head. “That canyon is too narrow, we would just get in each other’s way.”
“How do you know?”
“I was raised on stories of this place. That canyon is barely four feet wide, and the only way to get from the bay to the cliffs above.”
“But one man is surely not enough—”
“We need all our strength at the point of attack. I’ll be fine, I’m the strongest blade, and I have this.” He patted the Sword of Autumn.
Bendrick had his doubts. Astor hated lying to his friend, but there was more that had to be done on this island than recovering the Heartstone.
“Go,” Astor said. “Be swift. Once you get the Heartstone, take everyone you can and get back to the ship. Don’t wait for stragglers.”
Bendrick nodded and led the others into the darkness. The Emperor’s ships were only a half mile farther along the shore. Astor waited until they were just out of sight, then turned his gaze toward the dark cleft in the mountain obscured by swirling mists.
“I’m coming for you,” he whispered. “It’s time to pay for what you’ve done.”
Silent as a breeze, he crept toward the dark canyon.
The stone path was steep and narrow. Astor rushed through the darkness, guiding himself by running a hand along the side of the steep chasm. Astor plunged forward, worried that he would run into an Ohohhim headed back to the ships late. They would never see each other in the swirling mists.
He almost missed the staircase in the dark. Hewn out of the living rock, it had been shaped and polished perfectly. Astor took the steps two at a time, breathing hard after only a few moments.
As he neared the top, he slowed. Strange, tinkling music floated down from the summit, drifting lazily like the mist. He crept forward—crawling up the last few steps—and peered over the rise. He was stunned by the sight before him.
Sulfurous fog swirled across a verdant garden. Ferns surrounded bubbling fountains. Three half-completed stone buildings rose above the gardens, shining in the moonlight. The music came from women kneeling in sheltered alcoves, turning music boxes. They swayed in time with the music, moving like underwater corpses with pale faces and jet-black hair. Dozens of other bodies lay in perfect rows along the paved walkways. Astor couldn’t tell if they were dead or sleeping.
The entire place looked like a twisted temple to some foul religion the Ohohhim were hiding from the rest of the world. Is this why they had stolen the Heartstone and brought it to this wicked place?
Astor moved like a shadow among the mists, keeping behind whatever cover he could find. No one saw him, and he watched them, looking, searching…
Finding.
His heart hammered in his chest as he saw a tiny red glow in the distance. There was only one thing that red glow could be. He looked down at the Sword of Autumn where he’d covered the shining pommel stone with a scrap of black cloth.
Creeping closer, Astor saw a tangle of golden, curly hair fluttering behind a stack of building stones. The mist obscured his view for a second, then blew away. Yes…
He could see the faint red glow from Brophy’s heartstone as he lay sleeping on the floor of an unfinished dome. He appeared to be by himself, far away from the rest of the Ohohhim.
Astor crept closer, keeping the short wall between him and his quarry, hand on the hilt of the Sword of Autumn. His lip curled in a sneer. Astor paused. A pale light emanated from Brophy’s closed fist, lighting his young face with a faint glow. Asleep, Brophy seemed younger than As
tor. His yellow curls made him seem almost like a child.
But that child had killed his mother.
Slowly, quietly, Astor drew the Sword of Autumn, muffling the steel as it emerged. He circled around on silent feet, putting the pile of stones between himself and the sleeping man.
As Astor neared, he slowed. He placed each foot carefully, staying out of Brophy’s line of sight. He had to be quick. Brophy had caught him unawares last time. But Astor had been overwrought, not heeding any of his sword lessons. This time all the advantages were on his side. He had the higher ground, the superior weapon, and the element of surprise.
And he would not waste honor on this man. This was an execution.
Moving around the edge of the stacked stones, Astor strained his ears, making sure each footstep was silent. Brophy’s golden head came into view again.
His lip twitching, Astor raised the sword high.
“I’m so sorry it has to be like this,” Brophy said.
Astor chopped. Brophy spun out of the way, and the sword sparked against the stone where he’d been. Astor swung again, chasing him. With a grunt, Brophy jumped backward over the loose stones. A pale light shot from his hand and whipped around his head like a shooting star.
“If someone else had killed her, I’d do the exact same thing,” he said.
“Shut up!” Astor yelled, charging around the stones, knocking several to the ground. Brophy backed away, hands extended out in front of himself. His green eyes shone in the dark.
Astor swung again, desperate to strike him down before the alarm was raised. He could not believe the speed of the unarmed man.
Brophy retreated behind a blue-white marble sculpture of a wounded swordsman. Astor feinted to the left, followed with a spinning strike. Brophy twisted sideways, slipped behind the statue. Chips of stone flew, and steel sparked as the stone swordsman blocked the strike. Astor followed, but Brophy kept the figure between them.