by Sarra Cannon
Startled, he dropped form, snapping into a defensive stance. It had been a long while since he had felt he ought to be on his guard at all times, and he found the reminder unpleasant. Why had he wished to be back in this wolves’ den?
“Might you extend the courtesy of making yourself known?” he asked, fixing his eyes on the small, dark shadow at the top of his wall.
“Best if we don’t do this here,” the voice responded. “I mean you no harm, but I don’t expect you to trust my word.”
He said nothing in response to this, waiting for her—he had discerned that the voice was female, if nothing else—to show herself.
She landed on his lawn without making a sound. Rising from a crouch, she slowly started toward him, hands held parallel to her shoulders, palms facing him so that he could see she was unarmed. However, he wasn’t willing to trust that she didn’t have a weapon hidden about her person, and he maintained his position.
A rippling shadow, she moved over toward his lodgings, not heading for the door but for the light spilling from one of his windows. Illumination washed over her, exposing her slight form. She wore a tight, black leather vest laced all the way up to its high neck. Black breeches covered her legs, tucked into fitted black leather boots. A hood was attached to her vest, and she held her hands up until he nodded, then she reached to push back the hood, revealing her face to him at last.
“Miss Wyland?” he asked. Confusion swept over him, followed closely by a sense of wariness.
At the sound of her name, her eyes darted around the garden as if she feared enemies might be lurking behind his feral rhododendron. She jerked her head in the direction of his lodgings, raising her eyebrows inquiringly. He gave up his stance and went to the door, opening it and beckoning her in.
“I wasn’t aware that the Houses were so well-versed in the positions of the deshya,” he said, his sense of wariness increasing.
Few foreigners were familiar with the fighting style native to his homeland. Battle Masters’ gifts were such that they could never have any real inherent advantage over a Battle Master opponent from another land, so each realm had developed its own distinctive fighting style to compensate.
Myrshan Battle Masters had created a style for their sole use, and non-Adepts were prohibited from using it under penalty of imprisonment. Legend had it that the deshya had evolved from the Battle Masters’ form, developed by a young man jealous of his sister’s powerful Battle Master gifts. Decade after decade he had practiced, tooling and retooling the deshya, until he honed skills so unknown to her that he bested her in a duel to the death.
The legend was a load of bollocks, as far as Kila was concerned. Ordinary people could certainly learn how to fight and become very skilled at it, but no matter how fancy their fighting style they could never hope to be a match for a highly gifted Battle Master. In his view, it was a story the non-Adepts amongst his people told in order to reassure themselves that they weren’t completely at the mercy of their Adept counterparts.
“The House knows nothing about it,” she said, watching his face.
“Last I checked, you’re a part of the House.”
“So you’ve now discovered.”
Frowning, he stared her directly in the eye. Why the song and dance, he wondered. It had been a long night, and he would have preferred her to just come out with it.
“You’re the Enforcer. Assemble the pieces,” she suggested.
Pressing her hands together, she lowered her head so that her chin rested on the tips of her fingers. Inhaling deeply, she parted her hands, her right extending out to her side in a fluid motion as she bent her left at the elbow. The fingers on her left hand splayed elegantly, weaving patterns through the air as they came to rest near her side. Her feet were shoulder-width apart, and she rotated her upper body, simultaneously sliding her right leg behind her while bending her left at the knee, her upper body twisted so that she faced left.
Misdirection. Anyone unfamiliar with the dancelike movements was liable not to notice what she’d been doing with her right hand. She pointed her dagger at Kila’s chest, and he could tell from the look in her eyes that she knew he would be able to disarm her, if he so desired. Moving with catlike grace, she stood upright again, sliding the dagger back into the sheath concealed up her sleeve.
Her form, it was so familiar. Closing his eyes, he watched the scenes playing out behind his lids. A little, pert face screwed up in determination as she tried to imitate his movements. That same face beamed with delight when he praised her for a perfectly executed kick. She had hungered for his approval. Like a wilted flower exposed to the sun at long last, she had directed her face toward him, eager to bask in the light.
“Annalith,” he said. “That never was your name, was it? I thought as much, though I didn’t want to press you on the point. You were a skittish creature as it was.”
“It was my mother’s name,” she said, and he heard the catch in her voice.
Wonder filled him as he opened his eyes and beheld the grown woman before him. She hadn’t grown much taller since he’d last seen her, and her frame was almost as diminutive as it had been then. He estimated her height at five feet, which made her more than a foot shorter than him. Her deep, deep blue eyes studied him as he studied her, and he could have kicked himself for having failed to recognize the distinctive color. But, then, his gifts weren’t foolproof. Perhaps the greatest danger to an Enforcer came about when they forgot that they couldn’t see the clues if they didn’t look.
He did remember, though, that those eyes hadn’t been quite so thickly fringed by such long, black lashes when she’d been younger. Her hair was pulled back in a functional knot, and it was difficult to see the color clearly in the dim light of the room, but it seemed darker than it had been when she was younger, the shade now closer to mahogany. Her features were delicate, her cheekbones more prominent, her nose more defined than in her youth. Had he examined her long enough, he would have noticed the similarities. It had been many years since he had last seen her, but he had never forgotten about her.
Though he had to admit it was jarring to try to reconcile the sweet, fragile, innocent child he remembered with the lovely woman who stood before him.
“I didn’t think you would return,” she said, and he detected a note of hurt.
“Neither did I,” he said. “And my departure was rather more sudden than I might have liked.”
“Where have you been?”
“Here, there, and everywhere that doesn’t have a name,” he said, the tang of bitterness on his tongue.
That was indiscreet of him. He didn’t know this woman, hadn’t even really known her when she had been a girl. Oh, he had known she was lying about her identity. Despite its rumpled and patched state, her clothing had always been far too fine for that of a street urchin, and he had suspected the name she had given him was a fake, but he’d had no idea she belonged to House Staerleigh, and he could tell by her face that she had wanted it that way. But why?
“I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye,” she said.
Studying her, he took in the controlled expression, the determined set of her mouth, and knew that this was a woman who had spent many years disguising her feelings. She had been vulnerable when they had met, and he hadn’t wanted to exploit that vulnerability. Prudence had told him to send her away, to not get involved, but she had seemed so alone that to ignore her would have been another cruel blow, and he hadn’t been able to countenance it. He knew what it was to feel alone in the world.
“You didn’t come before I had to go, but I did leave a message for you.”
“I never got it,” she said, the pain in her voice as fresh as if the parting had happened the day before rather than almost a decade ago.
“I’m sorry for that, I truly am.”
“No, you needn’t apologize,” she said, turning to gaze out the window, hiding her face from him. She seemed about to say more, but then she abruptly changed the topic.
“I need to talk to you about what happened to Toran Stowley,” she said.
“What happened to Toran Stowley?” he asked, finding her choice of words odd. She made it sound as though something had been done to him rather than his death having been self-inflicted. “Do you have information to share?”
He wasn’t certain how to play this. She appeared to be seeking his assistance, but he had no idea where she fit into the bigger picture of the political situation in her House. All indications were that she and Captain Stowley were quite close, and yet here she was, skulking to Kila’s lodgings under cover of night, seeking a covert conversation with him. What was her angle?
“No,” she said, then she shook her head and amended her statement. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not giving me much to go on. I can’t be of assistance without understanding the nature of your concern.”
With a frustrated sigh, she turned back to him. “I don’t know how to feel about this.”
“About what?”
“This trust I seem determined to place in you,” she said, surprising him with her forthrightness. “I was a child when you knew me last, and so many years have passed since then, yet… When I saw you at the assembly, I felt like I had finally found someone in whom I could confide.”
He watched her struggle with her emotions. Her words should have put him on his guard all the more, and yet her confusion seemed so sincere. Utilizing only the subtlest of physical clues, a scrap of paper here, a vase put back two inches from where it should have been, a blade that had been cleaned with just a bit too much care, he could determine how a crime had been committed. Putting together human cues and signals was not his area of expertise, and he had long ago learned to rely on what he saw, not what he felt. Feelings were for Intentionists. Cold, hard facts and evidence were for Enforcers. Yet here he was, wanting to place stock in feelings.
“You can confide in me,” he said, and even as he spoke the words he felt as though he were being pulled into a vortex. Whatever this was he was doing, it seemed he was determined to do it by leaping in with both feet.
Chapter 11
Kila’s words lifted the weight of the enormous burden Cianne had been carrying for the past several years, and she sagged with relief. She was no fool, and she trusted that her instincts were decent, but knowing this and trying to square it with her emotions was something different. Despite that she had long felt like an outsider, ostracized by those who looked down on her because she wasn’t an Adept, Staerleigh was still her House. The loyalty that had been ingrained in her since birth tugged at her, crept into her thoughts when she least expected it, made her question everything she observed and heard. She had written her worries off for years, telling herself that her House was simply doing what it had always done: working to secure its position. But things felt different of late, and she couldn’t shake the impression that she was on the cusp of uncovering something monumental, that what she had learned about House Staerleigh thus far was but a small portion of what lay hidden beneath the surface.
Before Kila’s return, she had lacked an ally with whom she could discuss her suspicions. Before Kila’s return, she had lacked a great many things about which she had tried and failed to train herself not to think. She knew she ought to be cautious, but she was so very tired of feeling alone, and with him she had never felt alone.
“It’s a long story,” she told him, rubbing her weary eyes. Sapped of her tension, it would seem she had also been sapped of her strength, and she felt so tired she longed to curl up and sleep and sleep. She wasn’t certain she had truly felt the impact of her new reality yet. Toran Stowley was gone, forever.
“Please, sit. I’ll make us some tea.”
A faint smile lifted her lips. “I always was fond of your tea.”
He smiled in response. “But not my attempts at cooking.”
Laughter burst from her, taking her by surprise. “Not that, no,” she agreed.
She watched him move about his kitchen, eyes drinking in his graceful motions. As a child she had spend hours marveling over his fluidity, wondering if she would ever learn to move as he did. It was as if he were preternaturally aware of everything in his surroundings, which she supposed was the case, given his Enforcer abilities. Even so, she’d never thought Burl particularly graceful. Canny, deliberate, and exceedingly difficult to deceive, yes. Graceful, no.
The years appeared to have been kind to him, if not mentally at least physically. He had been tall when she had known him before, his body lean and solid. He had filled out more in the intervening years; though he wasn’t as bulky with muscle as a Battle Master, his power was evident in his taut arms, his controlled movements. He wore his sable hair longer than he had in the past, but he still tied the wavy strands back in the familiar, neat queue, which now hung between his shoulders rather than brushing over them. His eyes were even darker than his hair, a deep black that could be soft and warm or penetrating at turns. Tawny-skinned, he had high, strong cheekbones, an aquiline nose, a nicely formed mouth, a somewhat prominent brow, and a square chin. She had contemplated these features many times as a twelve and then thirteen-year-old, her initial girlish admiration for him blossoming into something that had confused her.
His face was the same and yet different. Age had improved his features, leaving them more chiseled than they had been when he was eighteen, as if he hadn’t been fully formed then. She supposed she hadn’t been either.
That face had filled her dreams and many of her waking moments for the last nine years, though the inexorable passage of time had eroded away the details until she’d been left with no more than an impression. She’d had no likeness of him as an adult other than what she had carried in her head, and her eyes were eager, hungry to fill in the blanks left by time.
“You’ve continued practicing the deshya,” he said as he came to sit across from her, setting down a tray bearing his teapot and two cups. He’d added a plate of grapes, a few slices of cheese, and some olive-studded rolls. Her stomach growled, making her aware that she was famished.
“I have,” she said. Unable to stop herself, she reached out and ran her fingers over his teapot. He’d told her once it had belonged to his mother. The cobalt glaze was smooth to the touch, pebbled by the stoneware underneath it.
“I’ve managed to keep it in one piece all these years,” he said, noticing her gesture.
“It’s strange, seeing you again,” she said, the words slipping out.
He nodded and looked self-conscious. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you.”
With a soft smile, she said, “I’m not, not entirely. There’s a reason why I never gave you my true name. I didn’t want you to know who I was. And it’s understandable that you didn’t recognize me. I wasn’t much more than a child the last time you saw me. I’ve changed.”
“Yes, you have,” he said, the words unreadable. “Why didn’t you want me to know who you were?”
“For once I wanted to be someone other than Cianne Wyland of House Staerleigh. I wanted to just be me. I was tired of my role in the House defining me.”
He seemed uncertain what to do with her blunt words. She was taking a leap of faith with him, trusting that what she said wouldn’t get back to the Elders. It might be foolish of her, but if she was going to talk to anyone, he seemed the best candidate.
“Why did you come to me?” he asked. He poured the tea but kept an eye on her as he did so.
Accepting the cup he handed her, she wrapped her hands around it, warming them. “You’re an outsider. You’ve been away from Cearova and the trade Houses’ influence for some time, and even when you were last here, you weren’t subject to their influence.”
“How do you know?” he asked, seizing his turn to be blunt.
She would give him the truth, all of it, even if it didn’t paint much of a flattering portrait of her. “I followed you. I listened. I went places I wasn’t supposed to go.”
“And still do, I’d wager
.” He lifted his brows.
“Yes, I still do,” she admitted. “And that’s why I’m here. I don’t have any evidence to lay at your feet, but something is off. Something has been off since before Toran’s death.” Her voice cracked as she said his name, and she swallowed. Sipping her tea, she tried to collect herself. The scent of it, the fondly remembered spice and vanilla flavor, helped soothe her.
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t believe Toran would have done this to himself. He showed no signs of any such inclination. Things were going well for him. The Elders put great stock in his advice. He made it his business to learn everything there was to know about trade conditions. He developed advantageous connections within House Mallay and House Rolland, gathering all the data he could find. His recommendations as to which goods our ships ought to carry earned Staerleigh—and, by extension, the other Houses—a great deal of money.”
“Professional success doesn’t equate with happiness,” Kila said. He wasn’t questioning her, but he was challenging her to consider all the angles and to offer proof to back her argument, making it clear she had his full attention.
“No, it doesn’t, but I mean to illustrate that he had no reason to be despondent on that point. All indications were that his star would continue to rise.”
“Very well. But what about his personal affairs?”
“Again, I can think of no reason why he might have been depressed. He was almost universally loved in the House, and not just because of his business acumen. He was one of the kindest people I knew, and he was blessed with the type of disposition that prompted him to find the bright side of every situation, and the good in everyone. Moreover, Lach had just returned from a long voyage.”
“He was close with his son?”
“Yes, very. Lach’s return was a surprise. He wasn’t due back for a couple of weeks, but he said conditions were favorable and he had a very profitable journey. Toran would have wanted to celebrate that fact with him. He was delighted to see his son and thrilled about Lach’s success, which he cared more about than his own.”