“You offered to continue my training,” he said, drawing from Cobra’s original message.
“I did,” Cerastes acknowledged.
“I wish to join the Shade.”
Cerastes considered him for a long moment. “You gave me your answer long ago. I already know where your loyalties lie.”
Crash expected this. His Grandmaster was not a fool. “I was prideful,” he said quickly. “And I allowed myself to develop sentimental attachments. But now I see the error of my ways. I want to unlock the fifth gate. I wish to join your side, if you will have me.”
Cerastes studied him. “No,” he said. “I don’t believe that’s true.”
Crash paused. He didn’t know how to reply.
“You wish to kill me,” Cerastes said.
The words surprised Crash, but he kept his face composed. True, he thought. Now what?
After a long moment, Cerastes’ cold smile returned. “I can read your silence, little snake,” he murmured. “You wish to kill me, and you think you might succeed. But what I’ve built, Viper, extends far beyond me. You have no idea what I’ve become.”
Crash gazed at him quietly. “Then show me,” he said. “If your power is so great, you have nothing to fear. I brought you the weapons. Have I not earned a modicum of trust?”
Cerastes smile broke into a laugh, like a dry gust of wind. “Fear and trust?” he rasped. “I fear no one, and I trust no one. I will confide in you, little snake, if that is what you wish. But you might regret it.” Cerastes fixed him with a piercing stare. “I know who you are, Viper, and I know what you truly want.”
Those words resonated in Crash’s bones. He shuddered, and his demon rippled through his mind like an eel through black water.
Cerastes turned and with a wave of his hand, summoned a portal. He beckoned Crash forward, and as one, they stepped into the darkness.
Crash felt a familiar sense of vertigo. Suffocating darkness enveloped him. Then sudden red light pierced his eyes. He squinted against the unexpected glare and raised his dagger, prepared for an attack, but none came.
After a few seconds, his eyes adjusted. The light came from a burning, vibrant sunset. Hot, dry wind rippled his hair, carrying flecks of grit and sand. He looked down, realizing he was standing on the edge of a steep cliff. Rusty red rock stretched hundreds of feet below him into a vast desert. He saw a large encampment with endless fires and pitched tents spread out at his feet. At this distance, the occupants looked like tiny ants marching to and fro.
He immediately regretted stepping through the portal, with no assurance that Cerastes would return him from this place.
His Grandmaster stood behind him, his arms crossed, his hands tucked into his billowing sleeves.
“Where are we?” Crash asked. “What is this place?”
“Here is where your brethren come to train,” Cerastes replied. “See for yourself all those rejected by the Hive. Here, they have found a new home.”
Crash looked back at the tiny ants below. “You brought them here,” he said.
“They came of their own will.”
“Why?”
Cerastes raised an eyebrow. “Why? Can you really not imagine? To find a higher purpose. To stand in the Dark God’s shadow, and enact His will upon the world. Is that not the true purpose of our kind?”
Crash frowned. “The Hive does not teach this….”
“The Hive is weak, and our race’s knowledge has been diluted.” Cerastes swept his arm out, as though to encompass the entire desert and all the lands beyond. “This world has been stolen from us. The humans have destroyed our history, our heritage and that of all the other races. Why should we allow ourselves to quietly vanish? Why should we let the humans keep what is rightfully ours?”
Crash shifted. “The war ended centuries ago,” he said. “They won.”
“No,” Cerastes said. “We gave up the fight.”
Crash turned to face his Grandmaster. “You intend to start a war against the humans?” he asked incredulously. “We can’t win. Even with all the races united, there are too many humans to kill on a battlefield.”
An empty smile pulled once again at Cerastes’ lips. “Not a war,” he said. “Something more final. A complete and total ending, if you will.”
Despite the harsh heat of the desert, Crash felt his hands growing cold. He looked back at the rows of tents far below, hundreds of them, perhaps thousands. The Shade’s numbers were far greater than he imagined. Cerastes was forming an army, that much he could tell.
His Grandmaster watched him. “Why do you think I am showing you this?” he asked quietly.
Crash thought he knew the answer. “Because you intend to kill me,” he said.
“No, Viper,” Cerastes murmured. “Because I intend to save you. I intend to bring you home.”
Crash flinched at those words, as if he had been struck in the face. Home. It should be meaningless, and yet he wondered what it would feel like to have a place to return to, a place to belong.
Don’t listen. These are not your people.
“And the Dark God’s weapons?” he finally asked.
Cerastes’ eyes glinted. “They are the key to everything,” he said softly. Then he turned abruptly toward the cliff face, waved his hand again, and another dark portal appeared. “Come,” he said. “Let us return to the snow.”
Crash followed him, and a few steps later, found himself once again in the wide stone chamber under the earth. The sudden change was unnerving. Moist air engulfed him, and the stale scent of old water, and he knew they must be somewhere near The City of Crowns, far away from the desert heat. The wraith hovered before him, still trapped by the circle of white powder.
The sound of heavy chains rustled in the darkness, drawing Crash’s attention. He looked up. Cobra entered the chamber, with Burn limping slowly behind him.
The sight of the Wolfy brought Crash back to himself. He remembered again why he had come here. Blood matted Burn’s hair from a horrible head wound, and he staggered as he walked. Their eyes met, and Burn subtly shook his head. Pain dulled his eyes. The bond between mentor and student was difficult to ignore, but he had other bonds now: new people who needed him, who trusted him, and who showed him a different way of life.
He could sense Burn’s thoughts behind his weary eyes. The Wolfy didn’t want to be used as leverage; he would rather die than put his friends in danger. But Crash’s mind was already made up; he was not going to let Burn pay the price for his own mistakes. Crash was not here to kill Cerastes, but to sacrifice everything for Burn's life.
“Release him,” Crash said. “I’d gladly exchange my life for his.”
“An intriguing offer,” Cerastes replied, “but no.”
“What more do you want from me?” Crash asked, without looking away from the Wolfy.
He could sense his Grandmaster’s satisfaction. “I have need of a Cat’s Eye.”
Crash didn’t hesitate. “Why? The Sixth Race cannot wield such a stone. None of the magical races can.”
Cerastes hardened. “Then I shall need the bearer as well. I suspect you know of one.””
Crash paused, chilled. His Grandmaster must know…. “Ferran wears such a stone, but he will be a challenge to capture.”
“Yes,” Cerastes replied, “but what about the girl?”
Crash remained silent.
His old mentor’s voice became amused. “You’ve gone to great lengths to keep her from me, but I know about your little tryst,” he said. “Bring her to me and prove your loyalty.”
Crash’s fists clenched. The thought of bringing Sora anywhere near the Shade brought bile to his throat. Yet at that moment, he didn’t have a choice. Despite his Grandmaster’s promises, he knew Cerastes would kill him if he refused to obey, and then he would be no use to anyone. No one would stand between Sora and the Shade.
“I will do your bidding,” Crash finally murmured.
“Yes, you will,” Cerastes said. “And until then,
I will keep the Wolfy to ensure your obedience.”
Crash whirled on him. Anger sparked. “That wasn’t the deal.”
“You’re right; it wasn’t.”
He glared. “I brought you the weapons. Now release him.”
“No,” his Grandmaster said firmly. “Not until you prove your loyalty to me. And in exchange for your silence, I will keep the mercenary alive.” His tone became low and lethal. “Don’t forget what I have shown you.”
Crash looked again at Burn. He should have expected this; all sense of control had been effortlessly pulled from his grasp. The Wolfy’s golden eyes told him No, turn back, but it was too late.
“You could have played this better, Viper,” Cerastes said knowingly. “I taught you better, and I will teach you more, should you bring the girl to me.” He spread his arms. “The fifth gate. Mastery of your demon. A place of prestige and power when the Dark God rises. What more could an assassin want?” His eyes narrowed. “What more could my student want?”
Crash flinched. Cerastes’ words summoned a tide of bitterness, and yet a strange yearning swelled within him. After all these years. Cerastes’ presence still held power over him. Those simple, targeted words seemed to burrow into his mind: I taught you better. My student. In sickening realization, he knew he had overestimated himself by coming here.
A crack formed in his armor, and doubt slipped in. How could he stand against his own Grandmaster? He was the Viper, a Named assassin, he who hides in the grass. How could he be anyone else? He couldn’t leave that life behind. Not when it stood in front of him, mocking him, beckoning him closer.
An eager stirring began in his chest. The demon wanted to overtake his sense of morality, shirk the burden of human guilt and release its chaotic will upon the world.
Crash knew the demon's desires well. He had fought to overcome them for years. Now, disturbingly, as he felt pulled toward Cerastes’ promises, he suddenly understood the fanatic loyalty of the Shade. His Grandmaster offered his demon the purpose—and power—it desired.
He bowed his head, and in an instant, knew he had promised too much.
CHAPTER 20
The next morning, Sora was awakened by Lady Danica’s handmaid and a serving girl from the kitchens. Hazy morning light filtered down from an overcast sky. Her room’s large bay windows overlooked the front of the manor. She could see a thin blanket of snow dusting everything except the driveway, which had been shoveled clear and salted. The clouds above remained sullen and ominous, threatening more snow to come.
The serving girl laid out her breakfast tray on the bed and quietly left the room. Sora pounced on the silver platter of food: cinnamon toast, honey, eggs and black tea. She was left with Lady Danica’s handmaid—Olivia, as the woman introduced herself. She was quite tall and slender, with short blond hair and wide brown eyes. Unsmilingly, she quickly curtsied and went straight to the wardrobe, where she selected several outfits.
As she ate breakfast, Sora watched her new handmaid curiously. It was common knowledge that a handmaid took on the mannerisms of her mistress. Olivia walked with her head held high and her prim nose raised slightly in the air, exactly how a servant of the First Tier should look. It made Sora wonder about Lady Danica’s tastes. What kind of person would her new “cousin” turn out to be?
“This is the fashion?” Sora asked slowly, inspecting the elaborate dresses Olivia laid out, one in deep magenta, another in forest green, and a third in royal blue.
“From last season,” Olivia admitted. She glanced down her nose briefly, and Sora felt the keen sense that she was being tested. Should she start listing every piece of seasonal wear, from fox-trimmed gloves to velvet slippers?
An inkling of doubt entered her mind. Fashion changed slowly in the country, but in the City of Crowns, the fashion center of the Kingdom, she wondered if wearing a dress from last season would mark her as an outsider or draw unwarranted attention. Did the Shade know anything about dresses, hats and boots? Most likely not, she thought, then felt a little silly.
“We’ll make do,” Sora said.
She meant the words as a peace offering, but Olivia looked almost offended and turned up her nose a little more. “Lady Danica is generous indeed to offer up her wardrobe, given her current condition,” Olivia sniffed. And then, with a change of emphasis, “Lord Martin entrusted your new wardrobe to me. We will have you fitted today in the Flower District.”
Sora felt suitably chastised. “The Flower District?” she asked.
“The women’s district, where all the women’s boutiques are,” Olivia replied, distinctly unimpressed. Her expression said it all—what noble-born lady didn’t know of the Flower District?
Sora decided to keep her mouth shut from then on. Lord Martin must have kept some information from his staff, and perhaps hadn’t revealed Ferran’s fallen state. Olivia seemed skeptical that Sora was really noble blood.
That could be worrisome. The staff was probably abuzz with speculation. If anyone could tell Sora didn’t belong, it would be a lady’s handmaid. How fast would news of Ferran’s arrival spread through the servants' corridors to the neighboring estate’s kitchens? How long before he was identified, and all the servants of the First Tier knew? Surely the older servants would remember him. Surely someone would recall his exile. And then what?
Sora indicated the royal blue dress, deciding she liked the color. Olivia put the other two back in the wardrobe. Sora studied the design: a tight bodice with a square-cut neckline, and a heavy velvet skirt that opened at the front to reveal a length of white petticoat underneath. She closely inspected the cut of the dress. In the country, long skirts were made to hide a woman’s petticoats, which were considered undergarments. Bodices were worn quite a bit higher, particularly during winter. In her opinion, the dress looked quite…risque, but she stopped herself from mentioning that.
City fashion was much less practical and far more decadent than she was used to. Country styles remained airy and pleasant in the summer, most dresses tied with a simple sash around the waist. Clothes were easily layered in winter with a full bodice and jacket, and recycled for each season. Of course, city nobility didn’t have to worry about recycling dresses. All the clothes looked fairly new.
Olivia brought out a set of panniers, wide hoops used to boost the many skirts she would be wearing. The panniers would considerably exaggerate her figure.
Sora gazed in horror. “Is that necessary?” she balked. What if she needed to defend herself? Where would she put her daggers? With the hoops, it would be next to impossible to land a kick, or even touch her toes.
Olivia didn’t bat an eye. “It’s the style,” she said stiffly. “The dress is made for it.”
Sora crossed her arms. “Well, I don’t like it,” she said boldly. She no longer cared about impressing a house servant.. “We’re going to the market, not a royal ball. I’d like a simpler dress.”
“A simpler dress?” Olivia asked. “My Lady, it’s winter and the summer styles are packed away.”
“You’re wearing something practical,” Sora said, indicating the maid's simple black skirts and bodice. No hoops or adornments, just long pleats and an apron.
Olivia looked startled. “You wish to dress as a peasant?” she asked slowly.
Sora hesitated, torn between her desire for comfort and her need to play her role. She bit her lip in distress. Which was better—disguising her identity from the Shade, or being able to defend herself? What would Martin Ebonaire think if she chose to wear peasant clothes?
Finally, she said, “I suppose it shall do, if there’s nothing else. Let’s see how it fits.”
* * *
Sora walked cautiously down the long set of stairs to the ground floor of the Ebonaire manor, balancing carefully in her dark blue skirts, which spanned several feet from her waist. It came back to her slowly—the weight of the panniers, the sway of the heavy fabric, the thin heels on her shoes. Her posture was naturally straighter, so she could walk gra
cefully. The dress constricted her breathing; her hair was pinned tightly about her head in a braid. Yes, she remembered all this.
Olivia escorted her to an informal breakfast room, then bowed briefly. “I’ll have a driver bring ‘round a carriage,” she said, and excused herself.
Several comfortable chairs of varying styles sprawled in a half-circle around a large fireplace. A tea tray had been placed on a low table. Martin Ebonaire sat across from her, facing the entryway, a porcelain cup half-raised to his lips. Ferran was seated next to him. When they saw her, their conversation stopped. Martin’s brown eyes widened marginally as he set his cup down.
Sora blushed slightly under his intense gaze. She had to admit, Martin Ebonaire was a strikingly handsome man, if a bit too old for her taste. She thought he resembled a younger, less-weathered version of Ferran. His skin was smooth and clean, his features sharp and intelligent, with high cheekbones, a proud chin and shiny dark hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He wore an elegant black riding jacket over a vest of gold brocade, with a silk neckerchief tucked around the high collar of his shirt. Sora imagined Silas drooling over the whole ensemble.
“My Lord,” she murmured, and dropped into an easy curtsy. As an afterthought, she bobbed her head to Ferran as well. “Father,” she said softly. The word felt strange on her lips, but at least she was playing her part.
“You look lovely,” Ferran said.
Sora focused on her role as a noblewoman. “Oh, this?” she said, and plucked at her skirts. “Lady Danica generously loaned it. Lord Martin has offered me a new wardrobe.”
Martin gave her an approving look. “I’m sure your beauty would outshine any dress, my dear niece,” he said. “And I am happy to help you prepare for winter solstice. No niece of mine shall go wanting.”
Ferran snorted, but said nothing.
Martin Ebonaire rose from his armchair. “Please, will you join us before your visit to the Flower District?” he said, and offered her a seat.
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