Ferran frowned in concern as she placed a weary hand against her back. Her stab wound.
He wanted to help, but knew she would refuse.
“Anyway,” Lori continued after a breath, “If Crash has indeed turned against us and joined the Shade, our cause might be lost completely. They have the three sacred weapons, and we have no more leverage. I’m trying not to lose hope, Ferran, but our chance of stopping the Shade looks bleak, at best.” She sighed heavily. “It’s time I retire for bed. Who knows what tomorrow might bring?”
“Are you planning to attend the parade?” Ferran asked. “I believe Sora is going.”
Lori shook her head. “No,” she said. “I should stay with Lady Danica and make sure she doesn’t relapse.”
“The staff is more than capable, I think…?” Ferran asked searchingly. “I don’t want you—my wife—acting as a servant.”
Lori gave him a pointed look. “I am acting like a Healer, not a servant, and Lord Martin has been more than welcoming, considering your family history.” She shook her head. “I want to make sure the girl recovers as soon as possible.” She turned and walked toward the large double-doors that connected to the rest of their suite. A maid was waiting on the other side to help her into her night garments.
“And where will I be sleeping?” he called playfully after her.
“The chaise,” she replied stiffly.
Ferran sat back with a long sigh and rested his hands behind his head. Why were dresses so provocative? The mysterious sway of skirts, the alluring cut of the bodice, the scent of roses and mint….It all awakened his senses far more than a tunic and breeches. Focus, he thought. Don’t be distracted. Oh, if only it were so easy….
He folded the map and slipped it in his pocket, then stood up. Perhaps Lori was right. Perhaps the map and the notebook meant nothing. But Ferran had a nose for buried treasure, and he could feel the hunt in his bones.
CHAPTER 25
The desert wind was cold at night, though not as cold as the freezing snows of The City of Crowns. Large bonfires lit the Shade’s encampment; orange flames danced across the sand and sent shadows leaping.
Crash walked behind Cerastes, following up and down the rows of soldiers. The Shade moved around him as the firelight flickered. He knew their practiced formations, their chains of attack, their blocks, holds and weapons. Every kick, every forceful punch reminded him of Cerastes. His Grandmaster didn’t personally train them all, but he knew the Shade’s leaders were his most loyal students.
He’s building an army, Viper thought, studying the ongoing rows of soldiers. He wondered again why Cerastes would show him this. The Grandmaster brought him here and left Cobra behind, which made him uneasy. Cobra couldn’t be trusted, and was stronger than Crash had first thought. The assassin trailed him to The Regency without his knowledge. Luckily he didn’t go to the Ebonaire manor directly, but caught sight of Sora leaving a boutique in the Flower District. He shouldn’t have followed her, but after Cerastes’ threats, he needed to know she was safe.
Cobra transported him back to Cerastes after their brief encounter with Sora. Cobra reported the entire debacle. He seemed frustrated that Cerastes didn’t punish Viper for not capturing the girl. Instead, Cerastes sent Cobra away and brought Crash here again, further into the desert, deeper into the world of the Shade.
His Grandmaster walked along the ranks, occasionally singling out a savant and correcting his or her form. The students practiced with wary attention. They didn’t wear uniforms, just ragged clothing dyed black and gray.
Is he trying to impress me? Crash thought as he trailed in Cerastes' wake. No, his Grandmaster was not so vain. But why bring him here? Why further expose the Shade’s secrets?
The soldiers hardly spared him a glance as they practiced. They assumed he was a new recruit. Viper saw countless mistakes as his experienced eyes swept over the younger assassins. He felt no desire to correct them. He kept himself cold and removed. He was no longer part of this world.
After almost an hour of listless walking, Cerastes reached the front of the ranks and traveled along the first row. Viper’s eyes immediately landed on a young soldier whose feet were trailing heavily in the sand. He saw Cerastes stiffen marginally as he picked his target.
“Wake up,” Cerastes snapped in his low, hollow voice. His hand flashed out and grabbed the young savant by the arm, just above the elbow. He didn’t have to squeeze hard to bring the man to his knees.
Cerastes dragged the savant out of line and threw him before the ranks of soldiers. At his brief signal, the leaders of each row stopped their practice and the ranks came to a graceful halt. Viper stood back several paces, wondering what the Grandmaster intended.
Cerastes turned to his army. When he spoke, his voice was louder than before; it seemed to rise from the earth and shake the air. The hair prickled on Viper’s neck. This was not a man speaking. Cerastes’ demon was powerful indeed to hold such influence over the physical realm.
“This soldier can hardly keep his eyes open. He is failing before his brethren. He is too weak to stand in the Dark God’s shadow. Laziness will not be tolerated among the Shade.” Cerastes clasped his hands behind his back. “What are our four tenets?”
The soldiers shouted back in a throaty chorus: “To stand as His feet, to lift as His hands, to serve in His shadow, to obey His will: We are children of the Dark God.”
“A lazy servant cannot carry out our God’s will,” Cerastes intoned. Then he raised his arm and indicated Crash. “The Dark God has honored you all tonight by returning his child to us: he is the Viper, dead to the Hive, Named at the age of fourteen. My protegé—and some day, perhaps a new leader among your ranks. Viper,” Cerastes turned to him. “If you were commander of my army, how would you punish this man?”
The Grandmaster’s words caught him entirely off-guard. Viper found himself returning the silent gaze of a thousand or more nameless soldiers. The attention upon him was palpable. His heart quickened as the firelight leapt, but he remained composed, hiding his confusion. This was another test. His Grandmaster was trying to corner him. He thought he knew Cerastes’ intention. By bringing him here, he wanted Viper to remember himself, to confront the past he had buried.
He turned to the soldier on the ground. Slow, smoldering anger touched his thoughts. Cerastes was trying to manipulate him into joining the Shade. Too soon, he thought. You’ve misplayed your hand. He would not be put to the reins like a beaten horse. Cerastes thought he knew the inner workings of his student. He thought Viper was still the same man who left the Hive, exiled and assumed dead, cursed to endlessly wander the land. He thought Viper was like the rows of savants before him, broken down by years of solitude, battling the savage desires of his demon.
But he wasn’t like them. He had something else to live for.
The soldier before him knelt on the sand, shoulders tense, waiting for punishment. Viper felt his lips twist. An assassin didn’t wait like a servant to be struck.
He reached down and dragged the man to his feet. “Stand,” he said.
The savant obeyed.
He stared briefly into the man’s eyes, unnerved by their glassy appearance.
“Strike me,” he said.
The man’s eyes slowly focused on Viper's face. “What?”
“Show me your skill,” Viper said, and spread his arms in silent invitation.
The savant drew a crooked knife from his belt, and with a heavy, stumbling gait tried to plunge it into Viper’s chest. He was clumsy and off-balance. Viper easily dodged and disarmed the man by twisting his arm behind his back. Then abruptly he released the savant, who fell forward once again into the sand, with his back fully exposed. And there he stayed.
“Why not defend yourself?” Viper demanded.
“You did not order me to, Named one,” the savant said as he lowered his head.
Viper felt disgusted. What kind of fools had Cerastes created? These were rejects of the Hive, and for a cold mome
nt, he understood why. This man was not worthy of any title, let alone that of an assassin.
His demon stretched through his thoughts like an uncoiling snake. Look at the weak little worm, it whispered. Kill him.
Viper’s hand tightened on his dagger. He stared down at the man’s exposed back. Adrenaline flooded his muscles and he tried to control his demon’s strength. There is no reason to kill him, he thought. The soldier was young, and exhausted to the point of delirium. He was not worthy of death. Crash tried to suppress his demon’s ruthless desires, but the creature seemed stronger than before, its presence amplified by Cerastes’ dark aura.
One sick man weakens the horde, the demon whispered. Its voice sounded almost identical to Cerastes’ teachings from years ago. One lame man burdens his fellows, and makes the fight twice as hard. The weak have their place. Do what you must to survive.
This is not a battlefield, Viper thought. This is not a mission. This is training.
Nature has its order, the demon pressed stronger. Viper felt his muscles cramp. Release him to our god.
“We are waiting, Viper,” Cerastes murmured behind him. “Your army is watching.”
Cerastes’ words held a mysterious power. Viper felt his control slipping. This was a public demonstration. What would the soldiers say, what would they think, if they saw his forgiveness? Would they find him weak as well? They knew his Name now. If he betrayed their Grandmaster, the entire army would fall on his head.
And for what? To save a nameless stranger, who had doubtlessly committed evils in his own life, who lived as an outcast of the Hive, killing for money in the back alleys and underground taverns of human cities….
But what of Sora? What would she think? And what of Burn?
What of the army?
We belong here, the demon hissed. A home. The word resounded through him with strange clarity. He hadn’t belonged anywhere for a long time. He didn’t think he needed a place in the world. But suddenly, standing before all these eyes at his master’s right hand, he wondered if Cerastes was trying to entice him with something more. Not just a home, but a place of honor, a sense of prestige he would never gain elsewhere.
Viper felt the hive-mind stir. A damp heat filled his thoughts. He tried to suppress it, but demons ran in packs, and the influence of the horde around him was too strong. Cerastes' indomitable presence hovered over them like a curtain of black smoke, influencing them by proximity alone, bringing their primal instincts to life.
He knelt and grabbed the man’s head. In a swift motion, he ran his knife along the base of the throat, cutting the jugular. Then he released the body to the sand.
* * *
Ferran traveled to the docks in the pre-dawn light. He left the manor quietly, ensuring the house and staff were still mostly asleep. He took a fast horse from the stables and made his way through the quiet city streets. A foot of snow had fallen the night before, which made his journey slow and treacherous; it took him almost a full two hours before he reached the docks.
He boarded the Dawn Seeker and roused Silas from a snoring slumber.
The Dracian woke up with a start. “Aye,” he muttered blearily, “Aye, I’m awake, why are we dragging, have we hit bottom?”
“We’re anchored, Captain,” Ferran said dryly.
Silas sat up and tried to straighten his disheveled red hair. “I recall that now,” the pirate muttered. He frowned up at Ferran, and took note of his expensive greatcoat and vest; his face split into a wicked smile. “Why, if it’s not Lord Ebonaire come to visit. To what do I owe this honor, Milord?”
Ferran dragged Silas out of bed to his feet, and thrust the folded map in his hands. “Look at this,” he said. “What do you see?”
Silas grumbled in irritation as he reached for an oil lamp on his desk and lit it. Then he unfolded the parchment and took a long look. Much faster than Ferran expected, he said, “The sewer systems.”
“Exactly,” Ferran recovered. He pointed to the parchment. “And this canal is outlined in blue ink. Blue ink is new on the market and this is an old map. Why would Martin write on it?”
Silas pursed his lips. His mouth moved in thought as his eyes traced the line on the page. “Something to do with the Royal Road?” he offered.
“Aye,” Ferran agreed, and clasped his hands behind his back. He began to pace. “Today is the Winter Solstice Parade, and this is the main channel. I have a horrible feeling the Shade plan to disrupt the parade. At the very least, Sora will be attending, and they might try to kidnap her again. This could be a perfect opportunity to catch them off-guard, lure them into the open and finally discover their plans!”
“All this from a map?” Silas asked skeptically. “And what’s this about your brother and the Shade? Are they in league with one another?”
“I don’t know,” Ferran said briefly. “But I trust my instincts. This blue line is almost identical to the parade route.”
Silas gazed at the map again. “Doesn’t the King have soldiers for this?” he pointed out. “Shouldn’t you tell the Guard?”
“Sure,” Ferran agreed. “I’ll tell them a mythical race of demonic assassins might attack by using the sewer canals. And as proof, I’ll give them this map, drawn by the King’s own hand and stolen from Martin Ebonaire. I’m sure I will land in jail.” He gave the Dracian a disgruntled look. “Do you only plan to drink and gamble this entire week? Or will you do something useful?”
Silas rolled his eyes. “I have no loyalty to the human King,” he said. “And I don’t see how this will help us recover the weapons…or my book, for that matter.”
“The Shade have threatened Sora’s life. They’ve tried to abduct her twice.”
“I recall that.”
“She’ll be attending the parade. She’s a target.”
Silas studied the map thoughtfully. “Well, Tristan’s fond of her,” he finally grumbled. “I might be saving his future wife.” He pulled a robe around his shoulders. “I will gather my crew and keep watch along the canal. And what will you be doing?”
Ferran nodded. “I’ll be searching for their hideout in The Regency,” he said, “in hopes of recovering your book. I will travel to each of the sewer access tunnels and see if I can find anything suspicious.”
“Then let’s hope the day goes smoothly,” Silas said. “I’ll see if I can recruit the Harpy. Perhaps I can persuade him to leave that little demon girl for a few hours.”
Ferran frowned at that. He remembered Caprion’s arrival at the Ebonaire manor last night. Had the Harpy already returned to the ship? He wondered what he might have learned from their captive, but he didn’t have time to investigate. Dawn’s light was already brightening the sky. Ferran had to return to The Regency before he was missed. He could excuse his absence by claiming an early-morning ride, but he couldn’t leave his brother waiting too long.
He grasped Silas’ arm firmly. “I’m counting on you,” he said, searching the pirate’s eyes.
Silas grinned, and his gold tooth flashed. “I’m counting on your generosity, should we save your King.” He gripped Ferran’s arm in return.
Ferran nodded, turned, and left the cabin.
* * *
Krait’s head lolled to one side. The wet, musty scent of the river awakened her, and the gentle roll of the ship. She winced. Her neck felt raw. Each swallow burned like a dagger slipping down her throat. Her senses quickly sharpened.
She tested the bonds on her wrists. Firm.
A loud clatter from the deck above caught her attention. She heard rattling plates and not-quite-distinguishable conversation. She guessed she was under a mess hall. Chairs thumped against the floor. Breakfast hour?
Her eyes adjusted easily to the shadows of the ship’s hold. She saw boxes, crates and barrels held down by heavy nets, fastened to brass rings on the floor. She was tied to a similar brass ring. The smell of seaweed and pickled vegetables assaulted her nose. By the gentle sway of the ship, she guessed they were still docked on the banks
of the river. Good, she thought. She was still in The City of Crowns. She could still escape and easily return to her master.
Her eyes scanned the darkness for a sharp object that would cut through her bonds, but she saw nothing of use among the wood and ropes. She repeatedly tightened her hands into fists, trying to jumpstart her circulation. How long would they hold her? A few days? A week? Indefinitely? She sneered to herself. The Harpy wouldn’t let her go. She suspected he would kill her soon.
As though summoned by her thoughts, she felt a subtle prickling on the back of her neck. Krait looked up just as the hatch opened on the other end of the cargo hold. Dim light, too white to be a lantern, teased her eyes.
Her chest tightened when she recognized the Harpy’s glow. Instinctive panic surged. She would never admit it aloud, but she feared the race of Wind and Light—feared, which was not a word in her native tongue.
The light brightened at the Harpy’s approach. She shuddered. She couldn’t see his wings, but that didn’t mean he was harmless. A piercing glow emanated from his skin, burning her sensitive eyes.
He knelt before her. She squinted and bowed her head to avoid his light, and suddenly, it dimmed. The vibration rolling off his skin changed in texture and intensity. Surprisingly, his magic didn’t hurt her as it had during her interrogation. Rather, his aura washed over her in cool, calming waves. The tension in her shoulders loosened.
He set a bowl of oatmeal and a tankard of water next to her foot.
Krait almost laughed. “Come to feed me, like a chained-up dog?” she asked derisively.
The Harpy—Caprion, they called him—gazed at her with calm violet eyes.
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