Grace of the Light

by Fergal F. Nally

  A good time to unleash death.

  Syrah searched the Seeker’s knowledge for the way, this was the difficult part, sometimes the way was obvious. This time it was elusive, she was patient, she felt near, then on the third attempt she saw. The way was up the gilded tower walls, without protection, climbing. Then through the upper chambers into the king’s inner sanctum.

  The gilded tower, the finest tower in the royal palace. She took a deep breath.

  Syrah pulled away from the Seeker and gasped, the meeting of two minds carried an intimacy that was always painful on separation. The Seeker turned and retreated to the shadows at the back of the room.

  “Go now, your mark awaits. I’ll see you on your return. Leave no trace. Lael’s blessings on you.” Silence descended.

  Syrah left the room and went to the armoury, she walked confidently with an economy of movement. The armoury was cold and still as the grave, she selected first the shade tunic and leggings that would lend her stealth. Next came the hood and night lenses used by the Sisterhood, her outline would be barely discernible, yet she would see perfectly in the dark. The blades she left until the end; two medium sized scimitars and Korvosian wrist blades, their edges smeared with poison.

  Poison that would stop the king’s heart.

  She knelt in front of the statue, bowed her head to take the blessing. Lael the secret, Lael the whisperer, Lael the misunderstood.

  Lael the assassin.

  Syrah recited the secret words handed down from Lael herself, in those few seconds she was connected to her deity in the pureness of spirit. She felt joy and confidence surge through her, the excitement of the hunt began to touch her stomach. She was almost ready, a few extra items, grenish seeds for strength, grappling hook and silk rope. She shivered as she donned her shawl, its magic breaking her outline into mist and shadow. Transformation complete, Syrah stepped out from the secret door, into the city’s dark heart.

  She walked along the streets keeping to the shadows. Midnight was near, the king and his cohorts would be up for a few more hours yet, plenty of time to find him. She needed to approach the tower from the cemetery district, at night this would be empty. Only the grave diggers stayed there and they would be inside, behind reinforced doors. Old memories and fears lasted for generations, the cemetery still a place of fear, the resting place of disease, plague… and ghosts.

  Syrah knew ghosts existed, she had seen four in her time, three harmless phantoms, mere wisps of gossamer, almost transparent, almost forgotten. The fourth had been different, Syrah knew she had witnessed a shade feeding on a fresh kill, a man that had wandered into the cemetery, perhaps drunk, perhaps an outsider.

  Syrah closed her mind to the past and breathed in the present. Her legs took her past sleeping houses and dark streets, through the cemetery gates. She saw the gilded tower in the distance, glinting in the moonlight. She was in her element, she savoured the moment realising she loved this game of death. She smiled and moved onwards, a blur among the tombstones and grand mausoleums.

  She reached the cemetery’s back wall. She cocked her head and waited, an owl hooted. Something wasn’t right. She listened using her gift and heard scores of hearts beating in the trees spread out around her, she looked carefully at their branches.

  She saw them, they did not see her.

  At least a hundred ravens were perched on the branches, like statues, eyes unblinking, watching the approach to the wall. This could complicate things, she was invisible to humankind but animals were different. She looked back, she could retreat, go through the garden district but that would take too long and had its own risks. No, she would press on, move like a ghost, a whisper on the grass.

  Lael would protect her.

  Syrah grew near to the trees, her feet leaving soft dewy imprints in the grass. Her breathing misted the air slightly, she heard her heart and the soft creak of the leather scabbards on her back. The nearest raven blinked and cocked its head towards her, a breeze rustled through the trees.

  It was cold here, amongst the dead.

  The raven dipped its head and leaned forwards into the breeze testing the air, it pulled back suddenly, stretching its wings. Its neighbour came to life and called out in alarm. The tree rippled with agitation. They knew. Syrah had to move. She ran forwards reaching up to the wall, her spiked gloves and gauntlets lending her traction on the masonry. She scaled the first twenty feet without mishap.

  The ravens were shrieking, flapping their wings to her right. She was boxed into a corner but had done so intentionally, there were no trees on her left. She kept alert and pressed on up the wall, her movement was met with an explosion of winged fury from the trees. Syrah shuddered, the temperature fell causing her breath to mist noticeably.

  She gained another ten feet and was halfway up the wall, the cold was draining her strength, something made her turn. She froze, vague shapes were emerging from the ground beneath her. Skeletal, misshapen. Dread filled her heart, she knew she had minutes before it paralysed her. She tore her eyes from the undead and focused on the wall in front of her.

  She threw herself up the remaining thirty feet of wall, her training came to her rescue, she used her fear. Fear was good, it leant energy, power and control. She reached the ledge and pulled herself up and over the wall, she looked down on the far side and saw the king’s gardens below. She began climbing down, relief coursing through her veins. Only dogs and magic traps do deal with now, her bread and butter.

  She saw the gas traps and the poison darts neatly sidestepping them in under five minutes. The dogs were nowhere to be seen, they’d be on their rounds with their handlers. The gardens were vast. She reached the gilded tower and looked at its pitted surface, it was ancient, built on the bones of the first army to lay siege to the imperial city. King Valin had vanquished his enemies, melting their swords and bones in cauldrons using the mixture as foundations for the great tower.

  The reflective gilding was added later to send Imperial light across the Erthe, both a warning to enemies and to showcase imperial might. Many people feared the tower, some said it was an illusion. The Sisterhood knew it was real and had mapped the tower as a matter of course. Any building of this importance needed to be known and Syrah had this knowledge from the Seeker.

  Syrah knew where she was going. She raised her hand to the cold stone and shifted her weight on the grass. She felt a click beneath her right foot, her blood froze, a soft click usually meant death. Then she heard dogs in the distance, barking, heading in her direction. She threw caution to the wind and started up the tower’s stone face, throwing her hands above her, finding cracks and chips in the thousand year old wall. The stone became smoother the higher she rose, handholds more difficult to find. She reached back pulling out her iron claw, its diamond tipped points found purchase on the smallest of the wall’s imperfections.

  Only when fifty feet up did she stop to look down, a sea of yellow gas rose thirty feet from the grass. She had stepped on a gas trap. Something else bothered her, the dogs were quiet, caught in the poison gas, their lungs dissolved, their throats silenced. Syrah shuddered, armies had been stopped in their tracks by this yellow vapour, she had out climbed it, with only seconds to spare.

  She looked up at the sheer wall, she was committed, the wall stretched up above her, intimidating. Two hundred feet of unrelenting stone, she had never felt more alive, she smiled.

  The wall did not stand a chance.

  Twenty minutes later she pulled herself up onto an overhanging balcony, fifty feet below the top of the tower. She lowered herself onto its wooden floor and breathed deeply, her heart pounding from the exertion. Her mind receptive, listening, waiting. Forgotten were the ghosts, the gas, the dogs.

  Ahead somewhere lay her quarry, the king.

  After ten minutes she moved, nothing stirred, the way was clear, she crossed the threshold into the room. The air was warm inside, she allowed her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She kept to the walls, feeling rich tapestries and wood p
anelling. She followed the wall to a corner of the room, then along the adjoining wall to a door. Her hand found the handle and turned, the door made a slight creak, the room was unoccupied. She opened the door and left the room.

  She closed the door behind her and moved along the corridor, guttered candles lining the way throwing erratic light. The floor was paved in marble, her feet moved soundlessly, a red glow lay ahead. She heard voices and knew she was close to the king’s upper chambers. She stopped, listening.

  “It came from the Meister of Draven Halls, his intelligence is good. Ashoreth and Morrigan are risen, they are abroad, building an army. Time is short we must act now.”

  “Draven is weak, his loyalties are divided, that’s what happens when you live on the border. I can’t trust him, he’d stab his own mother in the back for a hot meal.”

  “My Lord, I cannot stress this enough, we need to act, hesitation could be fatal.”

  “As could impulsiveness. I need facts, solid information. Where is Ashtoreth? Where is Morrigan? What is the strength of their army? Bring me information, Mordreth and I’ll act, until then it’s all smoke and mirrors.”

  “My Lord, a premptive strike on the Simulacrum at least, to stop them stabbing us in the back when Ashtoreth comes for our blood.”

  “I don’t want to wake that beast until I have to, word has it they’ve drilled deeper into their cursed black arts and have drunk deep of its magics. Who knows what they’re capable of now? We’ve not spilled their blood for generations.”

  “My Lord these walls will not keep you safe, not against today’s threats. These walls were built a thousand years ago, they’ve long since weakened against magic, they’ve lost their resistance, their stone and mortar are old, dry as bone. The ancient sigils are worn by time.”

  “I know my friend. I have the Mage School working on a solution, the knowledge of the ancients is forgotten. The mages are working on something better than sigils.”

  The voices fell quiet. Syrah heard drinks being poured and smiled. She had found the king, in an hour or two, he would grow tired of talking and would sleep. All she had to do was wait, she did not need sleep. She ducked into an alcove and pulled its curtain behind her.

  It would take as long as it took.

  Chapter 19

  The Crash

  Grace inhaled the black flower smoke.

  She felt the languid tingling build, the anticipation, followed by the rush through her body. She was flying, high, above the stars, looking down on all the lies and deceit. She had measured the dose carefully and after a short time, she started falling. Fear and panic rose, she had been there before and knew how to out run the crash.

  She threw herself into the wave of chaos and let it wash over her.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling, her limbs heavy, her heart pounding she tasted the bitter residue at the back of her throat. She was at the inn, she had tasted deep joy again, it had been too long, she didn’t feel diminished as before, something was happening to her, she was stronger. She turned the question over in her head.

  Why am I here?

  The question that had troubled her as long as she could remember. It would not go away. Every question had an answer, no doubt Falinor knew why she was here. She implored him every day to keep her safe from the attentions of the Trickster, Loki.

  Her body ached, she looked out the window, it was evening. She had timed it right, she had completed her task, she felt numb. She sat up and swung her legs onto the floor. She would be back at Blackmount Friary within the hour, she would report to Aelisa. Maybe then she could rest, decompress.

  Maybe.

  She felt lost, without a mark, hungry. She left the inn and disappeared among the maze of streets, darkness her friend. Old habits die hard, what should have taken an hour took two, she doubled back, used every trick to make sure she wasn’t followed. This is why she was still alive and others dead.

  Two hours later she stood in the rain outside the friary. Her fist hovered in front of the door. She was close to throwing it all in, her new life could start now. She had completed their dirty work for them and paid off her debt by anyone’s measure.

  Light flickered behind the barred window on her left, a bolt slid back, the door opened. Aelisa stood there, her face concerned and drawn.

  “Quick Stolen, come in. Were you followed?”

  “No… I made sure.”

  “There’s little time, the plan has changed. Follow me.”

  Grace fell in behind Aelisa and knew it wasn’t over, it never was. One killing led to another, a chain. Her pulse quickened, she wondered what the true drug was, the killing or the black flower? Maybe they were one, the same?

  They entered Aelisa’s room. Aelisa locked the door and retreated to a chair by the fireside.

  “You’ve done well Grace, very well. Bright Feather is most pleased.”

  Grace could hear the “but” coming, she bit her tongue.

  “But events have overtaken us. Thracken’s been murdered, his body was found a few hours ago in the river. This changes things. Thracken was going to take on the king, now there’s no one. There are things happening, we don’t understand, someone else is trying to seize power, perhaps the king himself, but I don’t think so. So…”

  Grace felt detached, she knew it was coming… the word “so” did not bode well for her kind.

  “So, we need to kill the king. You need to kill the king before the night is out.”

  Grace heard the words, she knew they’d been coming, yet they still trampled her heart. To kill the king, this was above her station. She was not a king killer, they were rare, perhaps two existed in the Imperium, the Seeker being one.

  Still… Falinor was looking out for her, he had put this task in her path, she could either keep the door closed, or open it. She had opened every door life presented her. She would kick this door down and grab whatever lay behind with both hands. Cold anger grew in her chest spreading to her throat, her cheeks flushed. Anger was good she could harness it, she would take its energy.

  “So be it, I will slay the king for your mistress, but for this I want something more than my freedom and new identity. That is, if I live.”

  Aelisa’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” she said.

  Grace took a deep breath. “I want absolution, forgiveness for all the lives I have taken. I want absolution from the priests on Falinor’s Mount and I also want to receive Lael’s mark on my body to grant me access to her table in the afterlife…”

  Aelisa’s face remained inscrutable. “These are worthy things you ask for my child. My mistress will honour your wishes, the risk is great, the reward should be too. It is agreed. You cannot fail, the future of the Imperium rests on your shoulders. Grace of the Light, may Falinor’s blessings go with you.”

  Grace nodded, she would leave immediately. There was one thing to do before she left, she went to the chapel and knelt before Falinor. She pressed her forehead to the stone floor.

  “Bless me Lord, Bless me for I have need of your light this night, guide my heart, guide my hand. I ask that you show me the path, your wish is mine, help me take him down, help me to right the wrong, the lie that holds the people back. Help me cleanse the land of this blight.”

  She remained bowed for a few minutes stilling her breathing. The silence was heavy, impenetrable. She lifted her head and gazed upon the statue; Falinor the great, Falinor the wise. He was watching over her, she felt his presence in the room, she felt his strength. She remembered Lael the secret, Lael the whisperer, Lael the misunderstood. The Sisterhood’s goddess. Lael had forgotten her, cast her out. Lael the killer no longer guided her hand. Falinor had taken her into his fold, she looked upon his statue and felt comforted.

  Grace left the friary and walked through the rain to the city. It was late but still shy of midnight, her thoughts coalesced. She could approach the gilded tower through the city graveyards or the market district. She weighed the options, then remembered the wall rep
airs in the market district. The repairs were almost complete but the scaffolding was still in place, heavily guarded … but still there. She could pass through the guards using her gift, they would not see her, it was better than the graveyards.

  She strode through deserted streets, the city held its breath. A dog barked, shadows flitted on the rooftops, the dusk thieves were busy. She reached the market district and the palace walls. Scaffolding stood against the walls, the gilded tower some distance behind. The guards were in evidence, strung out in a tight perimeter around the scaffolding. Flaming braziers shed light and heat, warming the guards and sizzling the rain.

  Grace spoke the words invoking her gift, her outline blurred, she vanished. She stepped out from the alleyway and strode towards the guards, invisible. As she passed the cordon a slumbering dog twitched and woke, its hairs bristled, a threatening growl rumbled in its throat.

  “Shut up Jasper! Leave ‘em rats alone for once will you?” a guard said.

  “Jasper? What kind of fool name is that for your mangy mongrel?” another voice chipped in.

  “That mangy mongrel is the best ratter this side of the river, forget cowbones and dice, if you want money come to the dog fights behind the lower decks, there you’ll see some action I’ll tell you…”

  Grace left the guards and their argument behind as she climbed the scaffolding, soon she was on the ramparts. The masons had repaired the wall and she found it easy to climb over the upper stonework. To her relief the scaffolding continued on the far side of the wall. She was soon standing on the grass of the king’s gardens, no guards to be seen. She knew the gardens were the home to the king’s hunting dogs, unleashed at night. Her invisibility would not guarantee protection.

  She made her way across the grass through the trees, to the gilded tower. The traps and nets she saw, the wards she sensed and avoided, the garden’s night magic held no danger for her. She heard barking and froze, the dogs had her scent, she could run or fight. She looked at the tower wall twenty feet away, she would not make it. In one fluid motion she unsheathed her blades and turned to face her enemy.