“I didn’t say it would be easy,” he said.
She inhaled a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and felt sick to her stomach. “What happened?” she demanded. “What was that?”
Ferran laughed at her bewilderment and patted her on the back as though she were coughing. It didn’t help. She shrugged off his hand in annoyance. “I don’t understand,” she said again. “I saw the garrolithe….It was sleeping, but I woke it up, and now….” Now she could feel its energy writhing in her stomach like a nasty bout of food poisoning.
“You didn’t get the noose around it,” Ferran said, as though that explained everything in the world.
“But… but the Cat’s Eye and the rope…I don’t.…”
“You have to harness the power of the garrolithe,” Ferran repeated slowly, as though she might be hard of hearing. “Get it? Harness the power?” He chuckled to himself pleasantly. “That’s the beauty of these exercises. They’re quite straightforward, really.”
Sora resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Have you done this before?” she asked.
Ferran shrugged. “For myself, for other reasons, yes,” he said. “Helping others…not so much.” His smile slowly melted into a more thoughtful look. “Your Cat’s Eye used to belong to Dane. Your father, you know,” he said.
“Right,” Sora replied, and glanced away. Ferran and Dane had been old friends, or so her mother had explained, but Sora didn’t know Ferran well enough to start hashing out family history. She met the man only three weeks ago. She had plenty of questions about her real father, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask them.
Ferran seemed to sense her withdrawing. He raised an eyebrow slowly. “What I meant to say,” he explained, “is that you’re the only other person I’ve met with a Cat’s Eye, since Dane died. These artifacts are very rare, and much has been forgotten.” He took the cinnamon stick from his mouth and turned it thoughtfully in his hands. “I’ve worn this stone for twenty years. Most of what I’ve learned has been through trial and error, and at times, bitter experience. Hopefully I can teach you to avoid some of my mistakes.”
She gave him a searching look, but he didn’t explain. She shifted her feet on the hard wood floor. Her legs had fallen asleep. A strained silence fell between them, and she let out a long breath. “How long have we been down here?” she finally asked, realizing how cold it was.
“Two hours, I’d say,” Ferran replied. “Perhaps a little more.”
Sora blinked at that. Their lantern flickered, almost out of oil. She glanced at it.
“Have you eaten?” Ferran asked.
“No,” she said, and smiled slightly. She didn’t know if she could stomach food at the moment.
“Let’s see if we can’t find a late dinner.” Ferran stood up from his position and picked up the lantern. He started back across the ship’s hold, maneuvering easily through the crates, occasionally leaping over them, one arm used for leverage. Sora followed with a bit more difficulty. Ferran stood almost a foot taller than she and had much longer legs. He waited for her by the stairs and they traveled back to the galley together. Sora couldn’t think of much else to say; her thoughts lingered on the meditation exercise, the gated corral and the monster within. She felt as though somewhere deep inside, the garrolithe still paced, glaring at her angrily with fiery blue eyes.
CHAPTER 7
Cerastes stood on the cliff face. The desert wind brushed his black cloak and raked its hard, dry fingers through his hair. Miles of red sand stretched before him into a wavering, mirror-like distance: the deserts of Ester. A single trailing cloud scarred the burning blue sky.
His eyes slid from the distance to the base of the rocky plateau where he stood. A large encampment spread out at his feet. Tents and fires dotted the ground. At this distance, the noise of the camp did not reach him, though he could see rows upon rows of nameless savants standing on the cracked, dry earth. They practiced chains of combat moves, all in coordination, like skilled dancers crossing a ballroom.
A trickle of satisfaction entered his thoughts. They came here to serve the Dark God. They came here to learn the secrets of their race, to obey, and to restore an ancient order.
Cerastes turned to the cliff face behind him. The massive plateau towered over the barren landscape. The book in his hand had led him to this place. Still, the plateau presented a puzzle. He found no markings, no signs, no indication of the Dark God’s resting place…and yet he could feel it in his bones.
He knelt with his ear to the rock. Through the cavernous walls of his body, through the echoing space between heart and lung, between pounding blood and seeping breath—he listened.
The red stone murmured.
His ears did not know the language. And yet his heart—which some would call a shrouded, crippled deformity—leapt at the sound. Because Cerastes’ heart was not dead, nor blackened, nor damaged, as some might believe. It was as clearly crimson as the blood of a martyr, as the fires that burned in the Dark God’s realm.
For nothing, he thought. For nothing, I have sought You out. And for nothing, I shall fulfill this task.
Because to live for nothing…to worship it, as one might the core of oneself, and dismantle all trappings of worldly identity…to live only in the moment, with few wants or desires, free from attachment and reward….That was the final calling of an assassin. To know the true emptiness of all creation: life, a momentary flash of light, conceived from nothing and destined to return to its original state….
In this way, Cerastes knew the truth of the world. Life was not sacred, nor was death. All was a cycle. And beyond life and death, in those realms of emptiness—where the Elements vanished after creating the world—only there could one find peace.
The Dark God yearned to return the world to emptiness.
One could not live so long as an assassin and ignore that call.
The Sixth Race were not meant to rule. His kind did not have emperors or kings. They served their practice, their Grandmasters and the Hive. He knew this instinctively. He had lived it. For decades he had strictly obeyed his people’s traditions, asking more from his body and mind than even his fellow Grandmasters could tolerate. But it was not enough. Eventually, after decades of study, he had reached the pinnacle of his practice. He could gain no more from the Hive.
And then, with nowhere else to turn, he had delved into the ancient secrets of his race. He had traveled to distant lands where the ruins of their once-civilization could be found in burial grounds and wasted tombs. He read books and half-burned scrolls, and traced out the ancient runes left on tombstones and buried crypts.
Only then did he see the Hive’s traditions for what they truly were—diluted. Miswritten. Weak.
From those ancient relics of his race, he gained knowledge of the Shade. He learned a doctrine far more valid and higher-minded than taught in the Hive.
And he faced the truth: the races were slowly dying. One day, their knowledge and traditions, their sacred practices, their magic and their gods would be lost forever, becoming footnotes in history books, then mythology, then dust on the wind.
Why should humans live while the races died?
What greater right did they have to exist?
If his kind were to fade from the world, then the world should fade with them.
He listened to the earth murmur. He pressed his hands against the hot, crimson rock. In that enclosed silence, he heard the Dark God speak—not words he could repeat aloud, nor even truly a language, but a sensation, an instinct greater than his own that swelled through his body.
And then the silence was broken.
A quick series of footsteps approached on the wooden steps behind him.
“Master,” a soft voice said. “The two have returned. They await your presence.”
He rose quietly from the rocky ledge and brushed the dust from his robes. Then he turned to the long series of wooden steps that led back down to the desert. He dismissed the nameless savant
with a wave of his hand. Then, with another wave and a bit of magic, he summoned a pitch-black portal and stepped through it. The darkness clasped him in a familiar shroud.
Within seconds, the desert landscape dissolved around him, replaced by a gust of chill wintry air. The sound of passing carriages and human voices reached his ears. Above him, he no longer saw the expanse of the red plateau or the burning sky, but 200 feet of scaffold—a tower worthy of a King.
He descended the wooden staircase into the misty afternoon light. Storm clouds swirled tumultuously above him, threatening snow. King Royce’s workers swarmed over the tower like busy little birds constructing a nest. Such shallow creatures, he thought, watching them dispassionately. The humans he had met, even the King, were a step above livestock, imbued with material intelligence yet ultimately devoid of depth. They barely questioned their own existence. They lived mindlessly, mumbling prayers to their Goddess, until they dropped dead on the ground.
He left the rickety staircase and entered the half-constructed stone base of the tower. The sounds of construction echoed through the hollow center of the building. Above him, hundreds of feet of brass gears and steel ropes filled its height. A new accomplishment for the human King—and the perfect guise for his purpose.
Darkness pooled unnaturally at his feet. He waited until the human workers dispersed. Then, with a simple assertion of will, he melted through the stone floor to where his underlings awaited.
* * *
The underground chamber’s thick stone walls dampened Krait’s words. After making her report, she allowed her voice to die on the musty air. The crunch of heavy gears carried on above her, an ongoing grind through the earth. Cobra knelt nearby on one knee, his eyes feverishly trained on the ground.
Her Grandmaster remained silent, but the wraith at his back seemed to mirror his thoughts. The phantom flickered back and forth agitatedly, flying in restless circles, occasionally ramming up against the barrier of its invisible prison. It let out a piercing wail without warning. Heavy stone swallowed up the sound.
She waited. Cerastes thought. The gears churned. The wraith spun.
“And the Viper seemed…distracted by this girl?” he finally asked.
“Yes,” Krait intoned. She thought her master looked disappointed by the news, though she couldn’t fathom why.
“It seems our Viper has fallen for a trap of the heart,” Cerastes murmured. “How regressive.” He paused, his eyes trailing thoughtfully along the wall, as though rewriting some passage in a book. “Still, I suppose this is promising news,” he continued. “He can’t maintain control of his demon while allowing his emotions to run rampant. This can be used to our advantage.”
“He was in control when he faced the blight,” Cobra offered boldly.
“It won’t last,” Cerastes dismissed him. “He’s distracted by this girl. Yes, this changes things….” The Grandmaster paused to gaze at the wraith. “How close are they to the city?”
“About two weeks,” Krait said. “Well in time for winter solstice.”
Cerastes nodded. “Bring her to me when they arrive.”
Krait didn’t expect this. The ensuing silence seemed to beckon an answer. She didn’t know what to say.
“We can bring her sooner,” Cobra hissed eagerly. “We can bring her now….”
He fell silent under Cerastes’ withering stare. Krait suppressed a sneer.
“No need to rush,” their master intoned. “We will trust in the Dark God’s timing and wait for their arrival. Once we have the girl, then the Viper will come to heel, and the weapons will be ours.” His gaze fastened on Cobra. “You know what you must do.”
Cobra bowed his head. “Yes, Grandmaster.”
Krait glanced at her fellow assassin. She sensed a hidden agenda. What other mission did Cerastes refer to? She wondered, then, if she should voice her misgivings about Cobra. Even now, he spoke out of turn and did not follow the subservient doctrine of the Shade.
She imagined how that conversation would go with Cobra standing right next to her. She didn’t want to start a petty argument in front of her Grandmaster. As an assassin and a member of the Shade, her only duty was to obey.
“I am very busy,” Cerastes said in dismissal. “The Shade grows stronger in the Dark God’s shadow, but there is still much work to be done. Do not disturb me until you have the girl.”
Krait and Cobra bowed in succession, then turned as one to the shadow portal. With a few swift steps, Krait dashed through the misty portal and found herself transported instantly back to the slums of the city. She arrived on the bank of an abandoned water canal, long since overrun by waste water. Reeking, sticky mud sucked at her boots. Rain fell heavily from the night sky. Dim lantern light illuminated a row of thatched houses across the channel.
A moment later, the air wavered and Cobra appeared by her side. He stood there twitching and shifting, and took a moment to adjust his gauntlets. Krait watched out of the corner of her eye in disgust. For an assassin, he could never stand still.
She faced Cobra with a hard stare, meeting his toxic green eyes. She still hadn’t seen the entirety of his face, and she didn’t want to. The shiny texture of his scars reminded her of old burn marks. Whatever his disfigurement, she could tell it was gruesome.
Most of the Shade were like Cobra: maimed and discarded assassins, rejected from the Hive and left for dead. Cerastes became their saving grace. They joined the Shade’s ranks, eager for any sort of community.
Despite their solitary nature, her kind wasn’t meant to exist on their own. The Sixth Race thrived on structure. Cut off from the Hive, assassins became manic and deranged. With time, they slowly lost their minds to their demons.
Cobra struck her as someone who once came very close to that breaking point.
“I’ll handle the Viper,” he said directly in his thin, oily voice.
She glared at him. “Cerastes ordered us to handle the girl,” she said. “We must obey. We can’t stray from his plan.”
Cobra’s eyes crinkled. “A plan for you to follow, perhaps,” he said. “Cerastes gave me a different mission.”
“I highly doubt that,” she hissed. “He doesn’t trust your loyalty. You’re too unpredictable.”
Cobra shifted from foot to foot, full of unreleased energy. “Unpredictable, am I?” he taunted. “Only fools mindlessly obey orders. Cerastes sent you after a weak human because he didn’t think you could handle the Viper.”
Krait’s anger burned cold and clear. “You call me weak?” she hissed.
“In Cerastes’ eyes,” Cobra replied.
In one swift motion, Krait drew a short crop from her waist and struck Cobra across the cheek. Crack! Given their close proximity, the blow was brutally strong.
Cobra stumbled back, taken off-guard. Her strike tore off part of his mask. He threw up his arm in reflex, covering the exposed half of his face.
Krait shifted her weight to one hip and crossed her arms. “You’re too close for my bullwhip,” she said, “but next time I’ll remove your skin—whatever’s left of it.”
Cobra wiped a trail of blood from his cheek. Then he raised the many folds of his cowl and covered his face once again. The corners of his eyes creased, and a cold shiver went down Krait’s spine.
“Now who’s unpredictable?” he said. “What else can you do with that whip?”
“Strike off your manhood, if you like,” she snarled.
Cobra laughed—a breathy, wheezing sound. “Perhaps you could, but make no mistake: you are weak.” He stalked forward, closing the space between them. Krait stepped back, but he kept coming. “That’s why you follow every word he says. You live in fear. You can’t survive without the Shade. You think the Dark God really has a place for you in His shadow—some great destiny. You need it, don’t you? You need Cerastes’ strength, because you have no demon.” He released a slow hiss of breath. “Without the Shade, you’re a useless shell. That’s why you lap up our master’s words like a dog.”
Krait’s jaw tightened. She reached behind her and loosened the long bullwhip from her back. “Then you admit you’re not loyal to Cerastes?” she asked.
Cobra scoffed. “Put your weapon down, little snake. Only a fool would make Cerastes his enemy. I, too, have my reasons for joining the Shade.” He shrugged briefly. “But not for the Dark God’s might. Not to become a servant. Where my desires lead, I follow.”
“An assassin should have few desires,” Krait murmured.
“So say the brainwashed slaves of a dying tradition.”
Her hand tightened on her whip. “I can’t let you walk free, knowing your true intentions. If you don’t serve Cerastes….”
Cobra folded his arms. “Go on, then,” he sneered. “Waylay me.”
Krait glared. “You’ve made a sore mistake.” Her whip struck his chest like lightning. Cobra staggered from the blow, his breath stolen by the impact. Following the whip’s circular momentum, she spun and cracked down again, aiming for his eye, but he twisted away. She left a long, bleeding cut up the side of his neck.
Cobra danced backward, but Krait attacked like a stinging wasp, her whip all but invisible to the eye. Her next blow struck his arm, then his tender outer thigh. With each vicious crack, she closed the distance between them. Soon the tip of her braided rope ran with blood.
Finally, she lashed out the whip and caught Cobra’s heel, then wrenched him to the ground. The small man didn’t weigh much, and she dragged him forward with a practiced hand. She would tie him up and return him to Cerastes….
Then, suddenly, he vanished before her eyes.
She blinked.
He reappeared directly behind her. She turned too late. Cobra slammed his steel fist into her face, connecting squarely with her jaw. Krait fell hard onto the mud, her vision blurred.
The fifth gate, she thought. But how? It took years to master….
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