by Wight, Will
Maybe it was a coincidence, or maybe they were being overly cautious. Either way, one fact remained: she needed the hood off.
She shook her head like a dog with a rat, loosening the hood’s grip. She felt her hair fall free, as the cloth bag slid up over her skull. If she could pull it a little more, it would be past the crown of her head, and then it would fall away if she only let go.
The Shepherd didn’t give her a chance. Without releasing his grip on her arms, he reached up and tugged the hood back down. The fabric pulled against her teeth, sliding out of her mouth, and the darkness settled around her face once again.
She jerked her head back, trying to hit his arm, but she caught nothing. It had been a desperate move anyway.
Crunching grass, shallow breaths, and muffled grunts meant the second Shepherd—the one with the injured foot—was limping his way toward them.
“Listen,” that Shepherd said, from her right. “We’re not here to hurt you.”
The man holding her from behind hissed to quiet his partner, but it didn’t work.
“You’re not in any danger. Yala sent us.”
Shera nodded as best she could. Her shoulders burned, and her wrists were starting to go numb. If the Shepherd didn’t let up on the pressure, her arms would soon be useless.
As she had hoped, the man holding her sighed and released her, though he still held her by one arm.
“Take the hood off,” Shera said.
There was a moment of silence while he presumably shook his head. “We have orders.”
Shera considered that. She still had a chance to get away, at least for long enough to undo her hands. From there, she could run away or kill them both, as necessary. But it was perhaps a forty or fifty percent chance, and they weren’t an immediate threat. They could still mean to kill her whenever they got to where they were going, but she couldn’t think of a reason why that might be the case.
So she quietly walked with them for the next twenty minutes, playing along. She counted three times when the sound of the wind moved over leaves nearby, and she could have walked into the woods and vanished. Twice they passed close enough to Bastion’s Veil that she could have escaped into the wall of mist, and once she heard someone walking in the distance. Not necessarily an ally, but if she had screamed for help, she would have made her captors’ job harder.
All of which meant they weren’t going to serious lengths to keep her. If they wanted to kidnap her and escape, they could have sedated her and carried her off the island. They actually trusted her to cooperate.
She felt herself relax, the ice thawing away. Either they really were on her side, or they were so incompetent that she could escape whenever she wanted.
After ten more minutes of hiking, they descended a short staircase. Muffled grunts indicated that one of the men was opening a heavy door, and only a few seconds later, the three passed through it. They stepped into a cool chamber that smelled of fresh water, even through the hood. The room was filled with soft trickling, as of a nearby creek, and the distant scrape of stone.
She didn’t think she’d ever been here before, but that wasn’t unusual for the Gray Island. She often thought she could explore the island and its endless catacombs for the rest of her life.
When the cloth was pulled from her head, Shera didn’t have to blink to adjust her eyes. There were no quicklamps, only a pair of rough torches on sconces in the far wall.
In the middle of the room floated a square island of stone tiles. This island was surrounded by a shallow river, which flowed sluggishly against the walls. The water had to enter and exit somewhere, but Shera couldn’t see any openings in the stone. The surface of the river looked black in the reflected firelight.
Movement above her caught her eye, and she looked up. A stone arm rotated slowly in the ceiling, like the hand of an ancient clock. Its slow orbit mirrored the flow of the water below. It looked like it should cause a grinding noise that would deafen any other sound, but it was surprisingly quiet. It left only a distant rasp as it passed.
Shera and her two captors stood on a bridge leading straight to Yala, who stood in the center of that artificial island. Her yellow-and-gray hair was tied up into a bun, and she looked as though she’d survived years of sandstorms and harsh winds: her skin was weathered beyond her years, her eyes drawn into a squint that might possibly have been a glare.
She was flanked by four Architects, dressed in the expensive blacks of their order. Two men, two women. One of the women wore a black dress and a painted wooden mask, with an old rag clutched tight in her left hand. The other woman wore a black-and-white top with a long black skirt, a pair of eyeglasses, and two heavy metal gauntlets that looked like they’d come from a Luminian knight. The men wore black suits in subtly different styles, one carrying what looked like a toolbox, the other a ball of yarn.
Readers. They had to be.
The Council of Architects was the ruling order of the Consultants, and they were a more diverse group than any of the others on the Gray Island. While the Shepherds were all dedicated to scouting and observation, the Masons specialized in undercover infiltration, and the Gardeners…removed weeds…the Architects were comprised of those with talents too valuable to waste outside the Gray Island. Readers, alchemists, strategists, and administrators all found their way to the Council.
Yala said something quiet, and the Readers dispersed to the four corners of the room, sloshing through water without a care. They placed their hands against the wall.
The Shepherds with Shera seemed to take that as an order for them, as well. They backed up, leaving Shera on the bridge, and walked out of the room. The heavy door slammed shut.
She stood there, hands still bound behind her back, facing Yala, the High Councilor.
Yala raised her eyebrows. “Do you need me to release you?”
Shera’s fingers found the loop of the knot in between her arms. She’d been picking at it since about five seconds after they tied it. Without a word, she pulled the last thread.
The cord fell off, and Shera moved her hands in front of her, rubbing her wrists. Her skin was still sore from where the bonds had cut into her, and her fingers ached from plucking at the knot for so long.
“Good,” Yala said. “Now. The Emperor wants you to kill him, does he?”
The Reader with the gauntlets jerked her head to one side, as though she wanted to spin around, but she kept her palms pressed against the wall.
Shera’s sense of danger ratcheted up. The Emperor had been very specific about what he’d do to her if he found her breaking confidence, and he was capable of Reading the Intent in even the flimsiest object. She’d have to burn this nightgown after the conversation. And…would he be able to Read this moment in her bones? Intent wasn’t supposed to linger in a living body, but who knew what rules the Emperor could break.
“What are you talking about?” Shera asked, loudly and clearly. “I would never break the Emperor’s confidence.”
“Skip that part. Why do you think we went to such lengths to have you taken to this room?” Yala raised her eyes, and Shera’s followed. The arm of stone spun in long, grinding rotations overhead. “This room is a device designed by the Emperor himself. It disperses Intent, driving it to the edges of the room, where the flowing water carries it away.”
One of the male Readers coughed without looking away from the outer wall. “That’s not entirely—”
“I don’t care. I also brought a team of my Readers along to scrub us clean. Even the Emperor won’t hear anything we say tonight, unless you tell him.” Her tone said she knew Shera couldn’t possibly be that stupid. She was right.
“Then yes,” Shera said. “He wants us to kill him. Did Kerian tell you?”
No point in staying quiet when they obviously knew already.
“We’ve known about the Heart of Nakothi for years,” Yala said, tapping two fingers against her collarbone. “If the Consultants don’t know something, it’s not worth knowing.” She only ever sounde
d proud when she was talking about the Guild.
“It’s only a precaution, in case the Dead Mother takes over. We’re his…contingency plan.”
“We’re convinced that he will need you. Therefore, on behalf of the Council, I would like you to comply with the Emperor’s order immediately.”
That was not at all how Shera had pictured this going.
“I thought you would try to talk me out of it. Coming from you, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had me killed.”
She wasn’t particularly disturbed by the idea. If Yala had her killed, she would die, simple as that. The thought of being hooded and trapped, blindfolded and helpless, was ten times more disquieting.
Yala looked from one Reader to another, as if reassuring herself they were still working. “We don’t want to stop you. On the contrary, you have presented us with the opportunity we’ve been seeking for decades. Without the Emperor, our Guild will no longer be bound by the restrictions of law. We will flourish.”
Shera had never tried to imagine the world without the Emperor. She had certainly never pictured the Guild without him. The Consultants were known across the globe as the Empire’s most dedicated servants. No one could bribe, trick, or threaten them into betraying their absolute loyalty to the Emperor. It was the way of the universe: humans bled, Elders plotted, and Consultants served the Empire.
But now, she had to admit, Yala’s motivations made sense.
With the Emperor dead, the Empire would devolve into petty infighting. Especially if he died before the twenty years he had predicted; he might not have time to designate an heir. Every Guild Head and rich businessman would be clamoring for enough support to launch a campaign for the empty throne.
And every one of them would outbid each other to hire the Consultants.
“You can wait, though. What does it matter to you if the Emperor dies tomorrow or in ten years?”
The High Councilor didn’t hesitate. “We expect that it will take you another year or two. We’re not demanding unnecessary haste, so long as you eliminate him before he’s ready. This is the crucial point.”
There must be a reason. Shera didn’t know what Yala thought the Emperor would do if he had time to prepare, but there had to be something. Otherwise, it wouldn’t matter if she waited—the Emperor had made it clear that his centuries-long life was about to come to an end, one way or another. There would be a specific threat, or Yala would have responded differently.
Shera didn’t mind. She didn’t need all the answers before she complied with an assignment, but Lucan wouldn’t be happy. “Why come to me with this? Why aren’t Lucan and Meia here too?”
Yala looked at her as though she’d failed some simple test. “My daughter would give up this conversation if the Emperor merely glanced in her direction. And you can imagine Lucan’s reaction. The boy never does what he’s told without a thousand questions. As for you…how do you feel, at the thought of driving your dagger into the Emperor’s heart?”
Shera pictured driving one of her ancient bronze shears down through three layers of the Emperor’s clothes and into his flesh. He convulsed, looking into her eyes, uncomprehending. Blood spurted out of him, soaking his robes, slower and slower every second.
“Nothing in particular,” Shera said.
CHAPTER FOUR
Of the Emperor’s three surviving companions, Jorin is arguably the most interesting. The accomplishments of Estyr Six have busied the pens of poets and historians for generations, while Jorin’s are largely overlooked. Why?
This man, who is called Curse-breaker and Maze-walker, has done more to unravel the ancient secrets of the Great Elders than any other human being. He has explored the possibilities of Intent deeper than anyone save the Emperor himself, and it was he who created the classification system for curses and malicious Intent still in effect today.
Simply put, we owe the current quality of our lives to Jorin before anyone else. Without his influence on the Emperor and the Empire, we might still be crouched in caves, burying our crude tools every night for fear of what our Intent might birth.
—To Walk the Maze, one of the first biographies of Jorin Curse-breaker.
~~~
Jorin Curse-breaker may not have much experience with modern firearms, but he had obviously taken wounds before. The bullet tore through him and he fell heavily onto his back, shoving himself backwards with his feet until he had a thick bush between him and his shooter.
It was the person she’d sensed earlier, hiding among the trees. So much for not having a clear line of sight.
“Get back,” Jorin said, panting heavily. A sheen of sweat already covered his forehead. “If I open my blade, it will dust anyone in fifty paces.”
Rather than responding, Shera put a hand to Syphren. She sensed something nearby, closer than the shooter, as though a river of heat ran through the ground and ended in a well under the bush. The Soulbinding process had changed her, given her connections and abilities she didn’t fully understand, but she still wasn’t a Reader. She couldn’t pick up visions from stored Intent.
She could, however, recognize a trap.
Whatever the trickle of power was, it had been placed here for a reason. And this was the first place the target would take shelter upon realizing he was under fire. Ergo, a trap.
Before the words were fully out of Jorin’s mouth, Shera had grabbed him by the collar with both hands and hauled him out from behind the bush.
Seconds later, the bush and a chunk of the island blasted into the air on a tide of bright blue flame. Alchemical munitions.
The force slammed into Shera's back, sending her tumbling into the treeline. She lost her grip on Jorin as she rolled. The twilight spun around her, and she ended up crashing ribs-first into the base of a tree. Air rushed out of her lungs, and she forgot the cuts and bruises all over her body in her desperation to breathe.
It was a good thing, because Syphren's bindings had come undone in the chaos. Rather than pursuing the attacker, it was focused entirely on Jorin's weakness. The Regent lay behind her, groaning on the forest floor. Though she couldn't see him, her mind seized on his presence like the jaws of a trap closing around his leg.
He's down. Hurt. Weak. He couldn't resist. His power would heal us, restore us, strengthen us...
Shera finally heaved a breath, ignoring Syphren. She took a moment to quiet herself, to focus as she always did before combat. The longing died away—not gone, but quiet. Beyond her.
Her thoughts grew cold.
In an instant, she recognized her mistake.
There will be a third attack.
Only Consultants lived on the Gray Island, so she had no choice but to assume the attacker was one of her Guild. With that in mind, standard procedure said to prepare three plans: an initial approach, a backup plan, and emergency measures. In most missions, the emergency plan focused on preserving the Consultant's survival, but the higher-level assignments prioritized the success of the mission. In such a case, the third plan would be a suicidal attack.
It was the way Meia or Lucan would approach the situation, and Ayana had tried to hammer the same instincts into Shera. It hadn’t fully taken hold, as she happened to pride herself on her improvisational skills.
Now, for instance, advanced planning wouldn't have helped her. Who would have predicted the assassination of a Regent under Consultant protection? Only quick reactions would help Jorin survive the next few seconds.
After that, he could take care of himself.
The presence of the would-be assassin was rapidly moving closer, flitting from cover to cover. The attacker must be a Shepherd, trained in concealment; Shera's eyes and ears caught nothing. If not for the power of her Vessel, she would never have known his position.
But she was a Soulbound now, and that came with certain advantages.
She limped into the woods, forcing down the aches in her muscles to creep silently after the enemy. She placed each foot slowly and carefully, so it was almost a f
ull minute before she spotted a silhouette readying a pistol and leaning out of cover for a shot.
Devour him, Syphren whispered.
Shera left her shear where it was, pulling a poisoned needle from the pouch on her belt. They were non-lethal, alchemically prepared needles tipped with a paralytic, and they would keep him alive to be questioned.
The attacker was a man about Shera's age, and he seemed to sense her. As she took the last step to him, he spun around, pistol leading.
Effortlessly, she caught his arm and sunk the needle into his neck.
He struggled for a moment, pistol cracking as his hand shuddered. Shera's ears were still ringing from the explosion earlier, but the gun firing next to her face felt like a dagger in her ear. She flinched away from the sound, and may have lost her grip if the needle hadn't already taken effect.
Jorin limped over, clutching his sword in both hands. His black glasses were missing, revealing unnaturally pale eyes. He squinted in the twilight as though the light pained him, holding up a hand between him and Shera.
His bullet wound actually glowed a soft pink, filtering through his clothes like he had stuffed a lit quicklamp in his coat.
Wounded. A surge of Syphren's hunger rose in her, but she could resist once again. There was work to be done.
“So this is our little jackknife,” Jorin said. He didn't seem too alarmed, for a man who had just survived an assassination attempt. She supposed it wasn't his first time. “Is he one of yours, Shera?”
The man was indeed wearing black, but not the standard-issue blacks of the Gardeners and Shepherds. His pants, belt, boots, shirt, and jacket looked like he had stolen them from shops in the Capital, and there was no shroud over the lower half of his face.
“If he was one of mine,” Shera said, “he would have succeeded.”
Whatever he was, he obviously didn't have the Guild behind him. Even if this attack came from some discontent segment of the Architect's Council, they would know better than to send one man to kill a Regent, no matter how prepared. And they certainly wouldn't have done it while the target was with Shera.