“They fear me,” Haern said, shaking his head at the foolish noble. “That is why I can control them. What can you do? What terror can you inspire with a few scrolls, judges, and soldiers?”
Victor pulled the gold coins out from the corpse’s mouth, then stared into the vacant eyes.
“They fear you, for they know you are with them in the shadows.” He looked up. “But they will come to fear me more, Watcher, for I will leave them with no shadows at all. That is my terror. That is the difference between us. You skulk and hide in their midst, and with every murder, you become more like them. You are something they can understand. You are greater than them, you are frightening, but you are still just one man, and the moment you die, everything you’ve built will come crashing down. Let me help you. Let me save your legacy.”
Haern heard no lie, no doubt. Victor meant every word. As much as Haern wanted to dismiss him, he heard the promise of another life, of a chance to pull the weight of Veldaren off his shoulders.
“You really think you can cleanse this city?” he asked.
“I can. I will.”
Haern leapt, kicked off the wall, and then grabbed a windowsill. With it, he pulled himself to the rooftop, then spun, hulking like a gargoyle from a castle edge.
“Why?” he asked. “What gain? What reason?”
“You are the nameless man patrolling the rooftops at night,” Victor said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yet you wonder about my intentions?”
Despite the seriousness, despite the body, Haern let out a laugh.
“Very well,” he said. “Happy hunting.”
Zusa had sent a runner back to the Gemcroft mansion to warn of their arrival, no doubt scrambling the servants about in preparation. Normally Alyssa would have thought to do so herself, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. After all, it wasn’t often a parent returned from the dead. Alyssa and Melody sat together in the litter, with Zusa following alongside, ignoring the stares she received for her attire. There might not be room for her within, but she wouldn’t leave Alyssa unguarded. The sun had begun to set, and so the guards escorting them carried torches. Given everyone’s somber mood, it almost felt like a funeral.
Upon reaching their mansion, Zusa offered Alyssa her hand, who took it as she stepped out. Together they looked upon their home, both quiet, both sullen.
“It will be difficult, but Nathaniel must be told,” Zusa said.
“I know.”
Melody emerged from the other side. Her clothes still hung from her thin body, but a bit of energy showed in her step as she looked upon her old home.
“Just as I remembered,” she said.
Alyssa went to her mother’s side and offered her arm for support. Melody took it, smiling, and then together they walked the path toward the door. Zusa followed after, feeling like an outcast. They were family, however distant. What was Zusa, though? Friend? Bodyguard? Not blood, certainly not that. Whatever family she might have had, it had been lost to her upon entering Karak’s temple, nothing but a sacrifice made to serve.
Melody stopped in the doorway of the mansion, her whole body trembling. She looked about, saw the paintings, the lush carpet, and the wood carefully stained and cleaned by an army of servants.
“Home,” she whispered. For a moment she stood perfectly still, and then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, as if she could pull the very essence of the mansion into her lungs. Tears fell down her face, and sobs tore from her throat. Alyssa held her as that tiny body shuddered with each breath. Whatever doubt Zusa felt vanished at the sight. The torment was real. The sorrow, the joy, all mixed, all confused. No actress could pull off such a powerful display. Her insides twisting, Zusa hurried away, more than ever feeling like a trespasser.
Her room was out behind the mansion, in a converted servant’s quarters made flat and empty so that she might train. As Zusa hurried through the halls toward the back, she was stopped by a boy calling her name.
“Zusa?”
She turned, then smiled despite her worry. Nathaniel Gemcroft stood in the doorway of his room, dressed in his finest tunic. Already it looked tight on him, and she laughed at his obvious discomfort.
“You grow like a weed,” she said.
His eyes glanced downward, obviously embarrassed. He had his mother’s features, delicate, soft, and with a moppet of red hair atop his head. Though he was only nine, he was fiercely intelligent, and Zusa had grown attached to him over the years, as had much of the mansion’s staff.
“The servants say...well, you know. Is it true?”
Nathaniel looked up at her, and she saw the turmoil in his green eyes.
“It seems so,” she said. “Why the worry? She is your grandmother, and will be pleased to see such a fine grandson.”
Nathaniel shifted his feet and tugged at the hem of his tunic with his one arm.
“Because mother will worry, won’t she? Mother’s enemies might want grandmother to take her place.”
Such intelligence for one so young. Zusa sensed John Gandrem’s influence here. The Lord of Riverrun had found and protected Nathaniel after his near-death at the hands of a vicious lover of Alyssa’s. Ever since, the old man had played the father figure, and nearly every summer, Nathaniel went to his castle to learn to ride, wield a sword, and command oneself before the people. Evidently, he’d also learned of the many ploys men might use to gain favor and power. John was currently staying as a guest in their mansion, and she tried not to think of how he might react to Melody’s return.
Zusa knelt before him, put her hands on his shoulders.
“All that matters is that you show her respect,” she said. “Do not fear for your mother, and give no thought to her enemies. I’ll be watching over her always, and no one is more dangerous than me.”
“What about the Watcher?” Nathaniel asked, and he cracked a smile.
Zusa kissed his forehead.
“Not even him. Now go, introduce yourself, and make sure John does, as well.”
He bowed, then hurried away. She watched him, biting her lip as he vanished around a corner. Hopefully if Melody and Nathaniel got along, it would ease Alyssa’s discomfort. Not that it would help Zusa any. She’d had no discomfort when Alyssa took lovers and potential suitors before. Why did this bother her so? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Back in her room, she stripped naked, then retightened the wrappings about herself. Her mind drifted, as it often did during the lengthy, tedious task.
Alyssa had once asked why she didn’t wear regular clothes since she’d left the order of the Faceless Women. “Regular clothes get in the way,” she’d told her, and there was some truth to that. She could not leap and climb in a dress. But mostly it was that in applying the wrappings, loop over loop about her slender arms, legs, and waist, she felt herself sliding away. They were poor armor, but they protected her from the minds of men. Anyone seeing her knew she was different, and had to treat her as such. In combat, she was not a woman, but a specter, a mystery. At times she even thought to hide her face as she once did, but could not do it. That was her rebellion, however shallow it might be. Those who died to her daggers would die seeing her face, and in her eyes, they’d see no mercy, no grace, just a killer better than they.
Pulling her cloak back over her shoulders, she slipped out into the night. Alleys and rooftops passed by her, and she was dimly aware of them. At one time she’d been an assassin for her priests, and greatly feared by those aware of her existence. With enough coin given as donation, the temple of Karak could eliminate even the most powerful of lords. Rumors even told of kings and queens who had died to the Faceless for daring to publicly condemn faith in Karak. But now she was just one of many dangerous killers crawling the night, with little purpose, little meaning. Alyssa was her ward. The doings of thieves and murderers meant nothing to her.
Well, almost nothing. There was the Watcher...
“What brings you out this night?” asked Haern, as if her thoughts had summoned him in
to existence. Zusa turned. She crouched atop a spire of a mansion belonging to some minor lord who’d long since moved out of Veldaren to safer lands. Haern stood behind her, leaning against the chimney with a subdued smile on his face. He’d pulled back his hood, revealing his handsome face.
“Sometimes even mansions aren’t big enough,” she said.
Haern chuckled.
“I stayed in one for a few years, and was never allowed to leave except when at my father’s side. I explored every inch of it a hundred times, and I daresay they can seem quite small when they’re your whole world.”
He joined her side, and together they overlooked the city. The night was deep, and in the starlight the city seemed calm, empty, but that was not what Zusa sensed. There was a tightness in the air, and glancing at Haern, she saw she was not alone in feeling it. Perhaps it wasn’t just Melody that bothered her...
“Something the matter?” she asked him.
“Just Victor,” he said, not looking at her. “Still torn on what to think, and how much to trust him.”
“Victor?” she asked. He glanced her way, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.
“Where have you been today?” he asked.
“Busy.”
He shrugged.
“Look into it, then. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pays your mansion a visit tomorrow. A change is underway, and from the way he talks, I don’t think it is just the lowborn thieves he aims to scatter. Alyssa would do well to make friends with him.”
“I’ll remember.”
They fell silent again. As he stared, she looked him over. Ever since their time together in Angelport, he’d been a far more subdued person. Even now, as they relaxed underneath the moonlight, it looked like he carried a terrible weight on his shoulders. Zusa shook her head. He’d seen what might happen to Veldaren if he failed like in Angelport. The terror, the responsibility, it fueled him, yet drained him, as well. She wondered how long until he cracked, and could take no more.
Then again, she’d seen his strength. For good or ill, giving up didn’t ever seem to be an option with him. Slowly, carefully, as if reaching toward a frightened animal, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She wanted to be reassuring, but she knew so little of him, and even less of his deeper troubles.
“You are strong,” she said. “None can defeat you, so do not be afraid.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Haern said, but despite the frustration in his voice, he did not pull away from her touch. “I may kill thousands, but I will still die. What happens then, Zusa? What will I have accomplished? There will be no peace when I am buried, only a celebration of fire, theft, and murder.”
Zusa swallowed.
“Tears will be shed.”
“Not for me.”
“You are wrong.”
He stood, but his head remained low, his back hunched. His cloaks curled over him like gray wings.
“What if you’re right, and it is pointless?” Zusa said, feeling her temper flaring. “Why continue?”
Haern chuckled.
“Because I’m not dead yet. Have a safe night, Zusa.”
“You too, Watcher.”
Pulling his hood over his head hid his face in shadow, but she could still see his mouth, and the way it curled into a half-smile at the mention of the Watcher.
“Haern,” he said. “To you, let me always be Haern. The Watcher should have no friends.”
At this she laughed, then blew him a kiss as he vanished into the night. Staring where he’d been, she thought on his words.
“Victor,” she whispered. “Who is Victor?”
Haern had told her to look into it, so she would, but not yet. With his absence, her mind drifted once more to the mansion, and Melody waiting there. Must she burden Alyssa with even more worries? Whoever this Victor was, Zusa hoped that he would indeed be friend instead of foe. Their life was turned upside down enough as it was.
She took once more to running across the rooftops, the exertion welcome to her muscles. She was getting older, felt it in her bones. It had been nine years since she’d stumbled upon a frightened, endangered Alyssa. Zusa had been young then, but not anymore. It seemed everyone she knew was getting older. How long until even the Watcher was nothing but bent back and wrinkled hands? At the image, she laughed. As if Haern would ever age. He probably wouldn’t let it happen, too stubborn for even time to defeat him.
Old instincts guided her along, up walls, through windows, and across dark alleys many feared to tread when the sun went down. She was unaware of where she went, her thoughts elsewhere, but when she crept to the top of a roof and stared out across the street before her, she shivered. Sinking into old patterns, she’d come to the Temple of Karak, hidden deep in Veldaren’s wealthy district. A thousand memories assaulted her, most of them painful. The beatings. The trials. The methodical breaking of everything that made her a woman, coupled with the hiding of her body and face with cloth and wrappings. The priests had branded her a Faceless, an outcast meant only to serve in penance.
But not all the memories were terrible. She fondly recalled her fellow sisters, Eliora and Nava, and their camaraderie in face of such persecution. And of course, Daverik’s touch, the taste of his lips, before they’d been discovered, and punished...
A chill spread through her chest, and she shoved such memories away. Looking to the temple, she muttered a curse, a hope that the earth would swallow up the obsidian pillars and lion statues, leaving nothing but a scar where the temple had been. And it was then that she saw the movement, just a shadow among shadows. The sight of it nearly stopped her heart.
“No,” she whispered.
Drawing her daggers, she leapt from the roof and gave chase. It had been heading north, a black shape with a cloak. But it was no thief she’d seen. Oh no, something far worse than that. Her legs pumped, and she was but a blur on the streets. When she lost sight of her prey, she leapt atop a nearby home and catapulted herself into the air. Calling upon the innate powers she’d developed over her years of training, she sailed forward, her arms outward, her daggers pointed down like the talons of a hawk. As she slowly fell, she once more spotted her prey. Twisting her arms together, Zusa spun, and she plummeted at a vicious speed.
When she landed, it was upon a large two-story set of homes, the roof long and flat. Before her, at the edge of the roof, was her nightmare. She wore black and dark purple wrappings, tightly woven around her body. A white cloth covered her face, masking her features. A grey cloak trailed behind her.
Another Faceless.
“Who are you?” Zusa asked as the other woman turned around, her own daggers drawn.
“You?” the Faceless Woman said, her voice revealing her surprise. “Zusa, yes? The betrayer, the murderer of the faithful. They’ve told us of you, warned us of your blasphemy.”
“They?” asked Zusa, her whole body tensing. “I was the last of the Faceless. What cruel joke are you?”
“My name is Ezra,” the woman said, adopting a similar crouch as Zusa. Her body was thinner, and shorter. By her voice and the hint of features she could see through the cloth mask, Zusa guessed her to be young, and very beautiful. “And I am the first of the new. The order has been remade, and it is my honor to deliver you to Karak so we might wash away your sins with blood.”
“My sins?” Zusa asked, grinning. “Which ones?”
“You show your face,” said Ezra. “You are a disgrace. A weakling. My faith will bring you low!”
Ezra’s lithe body uncoiled, leaping out like a viper, her daggers twin fangs. Zusa fell back, surprised by the speed. Twisting to one side, she avoided a stab, then batted away the other. Planting her feet, she ducked low and cut. Ezra blocked with both her daggers, then tried to kick. A foolish move. Zusa spun again, her feet dancing. When she leapt forward, Ezra was out of position, the snap-kick having put her balance at risk. Her daggers flashed in, and found flesh. Ezra screamed, but instead of countering, she tried to retreat.
Zusa
gave her no chance. Her grim smile remained. Ezra was younger, faster, but she was clearly new to the order, and could not hope to match the sheer skill Zusa had developed over many long years. She’d fought the Watcher to a standstill. This little whelp of a woman was nothing compared to that. A feint pulled Ezra’s weapons out of position, and then she stepped close, leg sweeping. Ezra hit the ground with a cry of pain. Blood spilled across the rooftop. Zusa fell atop her, knees pressing against her shoulders, locking them in place. With one hand Zusa clutched Ezra’s wrists together, the other pressing a dagger against the woman’s throat.
“You think your faith means anything?” Zusa asked, breathing the question into her ear. “You think it gives you the strength to challenge me? You are a fool, Ezra, as is whomever brought back our order.”
“Kill me,” Ezra said. “I am not afraid.”
Zusa’s eyes narrowed. She shifted her weight, tightening with her thighs so that she squeezed against the two stab wounds she’d given Ezra in her stomach. They weren’t deep enough to be fatal, but they certainly hurt like the Abyss. Ezra clenched her teeth, but Zusa squeezed tighter until she finally let out a scream.
“You should be afraid of me,” Zusa said, pressing the dagger hard enough to draw a drop of blood. It ran down the edge of her dagger, then dripped from the hilt to the dark wrappings. “I can do more than hurt you.”
She picked up Ezra’s wrists, then slammed them down to make her drop her weapons. With her unarmed, she then took her dagger from her throat and began to cut, quick, calculated strikes. She knew where. She’d only wrapped herself in a similar manner for over a decade. The wrappings about Ezra’s face fell to the roof, exposing her small nose, cream-colored skin, and short brown hair. Her hazel eyes stared up at Zusa with a mixture of horror and fury.
“How dare you?” Ezra asked through clenched teeth.
“They hide your beauty to mask their own shame, not so you might earn penance in Karak’s eyes.”
Blood of the Underworld Page 6