Above them, a window moaned open. A response came in the form of a starling's curt call.
A body fell from the window above. Swift feet touched the ground. Marceline noted that they were bare.
“Lucius.” she nodded—her lips pressed. She had expected Gerard.
Lucius's black hair was untamed. It slithered down his shoulders in a dark river as he inclined his head, “Ghyslain has enough swords...hands...knives. Whatever you may need...”
“Watch her.” Marceline said, standing. Raising her chin, she met Lucius's eyes, “I'm doing a retrieval.” Marceline leaned into him. She covered her mouth as she smelt mahogany, “Don't let her near the balcony.”
Lucius nodded.
Marceline turned on her heel and skulked towards the balcony's exit. She came shoulder to shoulder with Reine, who blocked her from re-entering the room.
“If you aren't back by sun-up, agent, I will do it. I will jump.” Reine refused to meet Marceline's eyes. The girl glared at Lucius, “And no one will be able to stop me.”
MARCELINE AVOIDED MEETING with anyone of import.
“The seneschal's quarters?” barked a surly scullion, her hands red and raw as she wrung them anxiously, “I'd say you're askin' the wrong woman, deary, but...” the woman stretched out a palm, “...an eye for an eye as they say...”
“I'll do you one better.” Marceline said, moving her gaze towards the deep pocket of her jerkin. She pulled at the handle of her knife, making sure a hint of steel glinted in the flickering candlelight of the long hallway.
Marceline flashed the woman a smile.
The woman's face paled.
“Ah—on second thought,” she slapped her rough hands together, “you seem to be an important young woman...ah, yes,” the woman's eyes watched as Marceline gradually slid the knife back into her pocket, “the seneschal's chambers...check the east wing of the chateau. They put him in temporary quarters...the smaller apartments...”
“Merci, Madam.”
And Marceline left. Racing up the long hallway before taking a left and entering the massive domed vestibule that acted as a meeting chamber for those new to the chateau. She searched for the east wing, obtaining directions and information from chateau guards stuck on night watch. The palace was a maze during the day, and at night it was a crypt—its hallways ever changing. Its walls dark absent the light of the moon. When the bright light blazed through the windows, paintings and decorations adorning the chateau's colossal corridors were blinding.
With the help of a heavy-eyed chambermaid, Marceline found the seneschal's chambers.
“Merci.” she told the young woman.
The young chambermaid closed her eyes and yawned. She stretched, “I'll have to clean his mess from the room come the morn, so please—don't make me work harder.”
Marceline cocked her head—what did she mean?
The girl left with a lackluster wave and floated down the hallway.
Marceline pressed her shoulder against the door, then her ear.
She listened. Heard nothing.
Absolute silence.
What did that woman mean?
Marceline clenched her jaw.
And nudged the door open slowly. It moaned and she stopped. Halting. Letting the silence weave its way into the room again.
This is good—he's asleep. I'll take the letter and leave.
She opened the door.
A lifeless chamber gaped back at her. Desks were overthrown. Papers littered the apartment and drapes hung haphazardly from towering latticed windows.
Marceline cursed.
He's gone—the seneschal's gone!
The letter—gone. Marceline's chances of finishing this assignment—gone.
The Masters were right—I belong in the archives, not in the field. Merde—they were right!
She flew through the room, snatching papers from the ground only to fling them away. Searching for the letter through the ripped up garments and balled up parchment strewn about the moonlit chamber, Marceline cursed. She found nothing—absolutely nothing—as she flung things about the room.
The urge to scream hit her like an elbow to the stomach.
Marceline flung herself at the window. With white knuckles, she ripped down the velvet drapes and cursed.
They led her here—to nothing. Why didn't anyone tell her that he was gone? That the seneschal had left?!
She threw back her head.
And watched from the window as a gaggle of torches lit up the city streets below.
Far below.
Could that be him?
It was a shot in the dark—but...
Marceline turned—quickly. She raced for the door.
She'd have to get to the stables—steal a horse and ride. If that was the seneschal down there—she could possibly catch him and apprehend him.
Alone?
She shook her head—she could steal the letter back without him ever knowing. It was probably on the vicar seneschal's person and he seemed weak. Scrawny. If she could kidnap the seneschal's vicar from their convoy and take the letter—all would be well. Her charge wouldn't kill herself and she wouldn't fail her first assignment.
The Masters would be pleased.
Marceline smiled as she tore through the east wing of the chateau. Sprinting down the curving staircase, she hit the ground floor with a thump and continued sprinting. Her chest burned as her throat tightened.
A shortcut. She knew a shortcut.
Flying down the corridor, she tore through the main vestibule and careened into an attached antechamber that served as a servant's entrance.
Through the kitchens—that's the fastest way.
She took a right—a left.
A mare will be the fastest—a slender horse. Perhaps the herald's horse.
She entered the chateau kitchens, flickering sconce light blinding her as she weaved around a long island of wooden counters.
Marceline froze.
Someone retched violently in the center of the large kitchen. Rotting meat assaulted her nose.
She held her breath.
This was the only way.
Marceline forced herself forward—the smell deafening as the retching continued. She kept her eyes focused. Her gaze straight.
Her boot squelched.
She looked down.
Scarlet and skin. An arm lay before her, its fingers outstretched. Reaching. A sleeve was still attached.
Undoing a button of her jerkin, Marceline snatched a thin stiletto from her bra band and kept going forward.
This was the only way.
The retching became louder. The smell made her eyes water.
Keep going—go around it.
Some ways away, a man bent on all fours—heaving as nothing else came. His black doublet was stained a darker shade of black as his back rose and contorted violently. Before him, lay the crumpled corpse of a man in silken black robes.
A councilman?
“Vicar Seneschal Dimitri Couture?”
The man stopped. Silenced himself. He threw a wild eye over his shoulder before turning back to dry heave once more.
It was him—but what was he doing here? Vomiting by a corpse?
His face—it was covered in blood.
Marceline approached with her stiletto drawn. He knew she was there—but what would he do? She could see no weapon on him. Even if he concealed one—she was faster. Stronger. Smarter.
She could gut him like a sacrificial calf. To her, he was helpless.
Marceline came close. Close enough to prod Dimitri in the back with the sharp edge of her black stiletto. The stench of feces and rancid tissue made her blanch.
With a shaking hand, Dimitri pointed towards the door to his right. Heaving, vomit spewed from his mouth as he slapped his hand back to the floor.
Marceline circled the corpse.
Twisted limbs—broken. An arm missing, strewn halfway across the room. His belly was open, cleaved with the heavy head of an ax, she g
uessed. Entrails snaked out. Pink snakes wreathing. Purple intestines slouching sideways, escaping onto the floor.
The councilman's mouth laid open. Vacant gray eyes bore holes into the ceiling.
She recognized the man.
“Head Councilman Acel Dubois?” she breathed, stiletto in hand as she stared at Dimitri in disbelief, “You didn't do this?”
Blood stained him. A marker of proof. He shook his head.
Could she trust him?
Marceline tightened her grip upon her stiletto as Dimitri shoved himself to standing. He took a wavering step backward before forcing himself forward. He took a step towards the door to his left. He looked to Marceline, his face drenched in sweat and vomit, “It was supposed to be me.” he told her, his voice a croak, “It was supposed to be...”
Marceline shook her head, “It matters not.” Nothing but the letter mattered—she did not care about death.
Dimitri moved away. He pulled at the door and threw it open.
Marceline caught him by the bloodstained cuff of his doublet, “You have something that belongs to my mistress.”
He snapped his gaze to her—shocked, “A man lies dead—and all you care for is...” he shook his head. Snatching away his hand, he entered the corridor. Marceline tailed him, snatching at his doublet again, “Whoever did this—they cornered me in my chambers and almost ripped me open. If it weren't for Councilman Dubois barging in—that would have been me on the floor...”
Marceline grimaced, “And so, you sleep in a kitchen?”
He looked at her with wild eyes, “I have no idea how I got here! The killer...” he held his head in his hands, “...he magicked us here...teleportation—something! I don't know...”
Marceline grabbed him by the shoulder. Throwing him off balance, she kicked him in the back of his knee and forced him to her level. Sliding the stiletto around to the front of his neck, she took his arms and forced them behind him, “You'll take me to your chambers.” she demanded, her patience running thin, “You'll produce what you've stolen, or you will die.”
“I knew you were no simple handmaiden.” Dimitri hissed as the skin of his hands began to redden—his touch burning her.
Marceline jumped back—yelping—as Dimitri avoided the sharp edge of her stiletto.
“This city is falling to ruin—a man is dead and all you care about is your mistress's forged letter?!” he turned to her, hands burning. Steam wafting from his clenched fists, “The letter is gone! Dubois possessed it and now—,” he sighed, backing away, “—whoever murdered Dubois has it. He went this way—catch me and you'll see.”
Marceline held her hands—almost dropping her stiletto.
Had he...burned her?
Dimitri took off—sprinting away.
Marceline sheathed her stiletto.
If what he says is true and the letter has been stolen—could the seneschal have it? Is she...wasting her time? This murderer...could he truly...?
Marceline cursed. She sped away.
She'd have to catch him before daybreak.
HER CHASE TOOK HER out of the chateau and into the city streets. Darkness pervaded all as she wove through the moonlit cobblestone byways, chasing Dimitri as he chased a shadow. A crumpled shell of a person cloaked in black wove around a bend and he followed. Marceline cursed as she picked up her pace.
The chase led her to the Great Bridge of Safrana. A massive stretch of brick and steel that rolled over a gigantic gorge separating the two citadels of Safrana. The bridge was wide enough for an army to parade across. Sturdy enough for a griffin to perch and roost upon its hulking steel posts. Below, cold wind wafted up from the yawning abyss the bridge branched over. Marceline couldn't bring herself to look down as her heart hammered in her chest.
Far across the bridge, the shadow Dimitri chased stopped. The silhouette turned, facing them.
He lowered his hood. Opened his arms.
Marceline approached Dimitri. She slid her stiletto from her bra band.
“You see what I see,” he murmured, “right?”
She took a step next to him, but remained silent.
The stones beneath them shivered.
As a gust of wind batted at their hair, sending black tendrils flying from the both of them.
Dimitri grasped her forearm, “Wait—! Mademoiselle—,”
Marceline took a step forward, “Is this your thief? Your slayer?”
Wind whipped up dust before it howled over their heads—the air ramming into them as the ground began to shiver. As the bridge began to roll and groan.
Parchment exploded from the figure's outstretched arms. Letters.
One surged towards them—it flattened upon the ground. Marceline looked down. She recognized the script as hundreds more flew over their heads.
My dearest Reine...it read.
Marceline roared as Dimitri pulled her back—readying to run.
“You did this!” she screamed. Plunging the stiletto into his forearm, “You did this!”
Letters upon letters soared from the figure's outstretched arms. They charged towards Marceline and Dimitri—exploding into more fluttering pieces of parchment. The letters flying over their heads, littering the bridge as a howling wind blew them towards the citadel at their backs. Towards the city and its streets.
“You did this!”
She failed. Dammit—she failed.
Marceline was nothing. Useless.
She had failed.
Dimitri bled as she shoved him away. Marceline snapped her gaze towards the figure in the black cloak.
Only to see letters. Hordes and hordes of letters buzzing around the center of the bridge. A funnel of parchment. A tornado.
Wind whipped by her ears. Deafening her.
She howled.
A black cloak appeared before her. Mismatched eyes met hers. A face came close. Unbearably close.
A sleeve of black grazed her face.
Marceline held her breath.
“These things are meant to be known.”
The dead should not keep secrets.
And she gasped—her breath coming in sharp surges.
She brought her hand to her chest.
And sprung from her bed. Sweat drenching her face.
The room smelt of sulfur. Smoke.
SIX
Marceline
She heard footsteps, slow and sultry. Hesitant.
Rose coverlets lay tossed upon the floorboards. A trundle of books sat upside down upon her charge's cherry wood desk, and the tall windows were open. A light breeze forced the thin white curtains to dance and flutter.
The first signs of daybreak were pouring through the open windows, a soft orange light fought against the deep purple hues of night.
“Were you successful?”
Marceline spun around. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jerkin. Her fingers crinkled around paper. Tiny leaflets of parchment.
Her heart hammered in her chest.
Lucius touched her shoulder, a light tap, “Hm?”
Digging through her pocket, she produced one letter.
“Good, good.” he nodded, a leather bound book slipping from beneath his arm.
She bit her lip. Produced another.
And another.
And another.
Lucius let the book beneath his arm go. It dropped to the ground with a slam before he snatched the letters from her hand, “Are these all...?”
Marceline let a cry escape from between her lips before dropping to the floor, her knees weak as she completely emptied her pockets. At his question, she nodded. Whimpered.
“Originals...” he stated in disbelief, his eyes wide with confusion, “These are all...?” Lucius let the question hang in the air as Marceline groaned upon the ground. Her hands outstretched. Emptied.
She had failed. Her first assignment and already...
Lucius kneeled, clasped her on the shoulder and met her eye. He had no questions. Only pity.
Silence pa
ssed between them. The day was coming.
“Some...creature...stole it...copied it and sent it around the entire city. The little bit I have? It's a small fraction—no—a tiny fraction of what's been sent out to all of Safrana...” she spoke to herself, her eyes burning, “The Masters...they were right...”
Lucius cursed.
Tears fell. Trailed through the dirt upon her face.
Before she slapped herself in the forehead—ramming the heels of her hands into her eyes.
This was no time for tears.
Lucius squeezed her shoulder, “I can fix this.” he said solemnly, his voice barely above a whisper, “For you, Marcy.”
She shook her head, “This is my assignment. I, alone, messed this up—,” pulling her hands away from her face, Marceline stood, “—and so, I will fix it.”
“Some things cannot be done alone.” Lucius replied matter-of-factly, standing as well, “So...if you insist...”
“Where is my charge?” Marceline snapped, her eyes scanning the disheveled room, “Where is Reine?”
“There was an earthquake some hours ago. The chateau's residences were emptied, the people evacuated to the main vestibule on the ground floor.”
“Very well.” Marceline sighed. She approached the fireplace opposite the large canopy bed in the center of the room, “Can you light a fire?”
“Do you intend to burn these?”
Marceline threw him a look. She rolled her eyes.
“There is more we can do—much more.”
“And you plan to Change to do it,” she said, kneeling before the fireplace, “don't you?”
Dashing wood and flint together, sparks flew and caught. A flame grew. Lucius approached it.
“If that child throws herself from a balcony, her father will cut our contract and send us all back to the Bann,” he told her, dropping the letters into the fire, “your career isn't the only one on the line here.”
“You can't Change, Lucius. They will burn you.”
“And, if we fail here the Masters will Silence me.” he chuckled, a forced smile twisting his lips, “Which is worse, Marceline?”
The fire cackled. Crackling and snapping as she thought of the Masters stealing his soul, throwing it into oblivion, cursing his body to walk the realms as a listless corpse—Silencing him.
Blade and Soul: A Dark Fantasy (Kindred Souls Book 2) Page 4