by Darian Smith
The blades were packed into much smaller crates than the last time Ylani had seen them. The bolts of silk fabric that had disguised the weapons shipment were gone. The swords themselves had been carefully packaged, oiled and wrapped.
“Is this all of them?” Marrol asked.
“I think so.” Ylani shrugged. “I can't know for sure but it looks about right.”
“Doesn't look like he ever had any intention of returning them.”
“No,” said Ylani. “It doesn't.” She turned to the others. “Magus Nycol, if you could bring the carriage up to the doorstep and hide it again, that would be wonderful. Bredin, if you and your friends load these crates into that carriage quickly and without detection, you can consider your debt paid in full. Do we have an agreement?”
Bredin nodded. One of his burly comrades gave a bow. “Mistress Mercury, your wish is our command.”
Ylani raised an eyebrow. “I'm sure it is.”
The man bowed again and the three sailors each picked up a crate and followed the mage back out to the street.
Ylani waited until they were out of earshot, then shut the door for good measure before she spoke again. “You might want to be careful of that one.”
Marrol frowned. “Who? Nycol?”
“Yeah. I think he could be much more ruthless than you realize.”
Her brother snorted. “Look who's talking. You forget how much I know about your exploits.”
Ylani chewed her lip. “There's a big difference in doing what you have to in a time of war and offering to slaughter witnesses in cold blood.”
“Kalan witnesses.” Marrol's voice was flat and hard. “Hardly innocent.”
“Innocent enough.” She turned and poked at the crates. “How well do you know him, anyway?”
“Better than you know them.” Marrol folded his arms and raised his chin.
Ylani knew that look. She'd seen mules with less stubborn attitudes than her brother when he dug his heels in on an issue. “Fine. This isn't the place to talk about it anyway. Just . . . keep your wits about you.” She tested the weight of a crate. It barely budged. “Grab the other end of this, would you?”
“I'm missing fingers, sis. Remember? It's hard for me to pick up heavy objects.”
“Just one end, Marrol,” she said. “You're stronger than I am. If I can do it, so can you. The quicker we get this done, the better . . .” She trailed off as the sound of shouting voices filtered through the door.
Marrol frowned. “That sounds like—”
Ylani put a finger to her lips and he fell silent. She moved to the door and pressed her ear against the wood. There were definitely men in the building. More than her hired ruffians and the mage—many more. They clinked as they moved too. Her chest tightened. These were men in armor. Guards.
“Fan out and search the building,” an authoritative male voice commanded. “They're probably still in here. And see if you can wake up Teneran. I want to know exactly what he saw before they knocked him out.” A chorus of voices barked assent, followed by the sound of doors opening and closing, and footsteps marching back and forth.
“Blood and Tears,” she hissed, waving Marrol back from the door. “The Hooded patrol checked in early. Hide. Hide!”
Her brother gestured around the room. “Where?”
Her gaze darted around the room. The door the guards would soon be coming through was the only exit. The crates were stacked in neat piles against the walls, offering little in the way of hiding places. Even if they were to squeeze behind them, even the most rudimentary search would see them found.
“What if we push the crates against the door?”
Marrol shook his head. “Grab a sword, sis. We're going to have to fight our way out.” He held up his gloved hand and made an odd little movement with his thumb. The leather that had formed the prosthetic fingers retracted, revealing three sharp, finger-length blades that had been hidden and protected by the tough leather casing. “I had this made for personal protection. I guarantee we take more of them than they do of us.”
“No! Ahpra's Tears, no.” Ylani's mind was racing, considering and discarding options for explaining their presence. “We are not turning this into more of an international incident than it already is. Nobody is going to die tonight. Nobody.”
The voices on the other side of the door rose again. They were closer, louder, but too many at once to make out the words.
Ylani took a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on the door handle. Her stomach churned.
The handle moved. Then stopped.
There was a series of thuds and the voices fell silent.
Ylani glanced at Marrol and he held up the blades attached to his hand again. She shook her head.
The door handle turned and the door opened.
Magus Nycol grinned at her. The floor of the room behind him was strewn with unconscious guards. “I haven't done that many at once before,” he said. “How about we get this show on the road?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Brannon stepped over the corpse of the portly woman just inside the front door of Lady Magda's orphanage. Blood had spread out from the slashes in her neck and soaked into the carpet in a wide red marsh. It was glossy like thick lacquer, in the first light of sunrise. His chest felt hollow. After the war had ended, he'd hoped never to see carnage like this again, but somehow, no matter where he went, death found its way to his side.
He wondered again what might have happened if Magda's message had reached him sooner. After so much time searching the city and hoping to catch the frost wolf, only to have it attack the orphanage seemingly moments before he arrived, Brannon couldn't help feeling guilty. If he'd been there, could he have saved the woman who had devoted her life to vulnerable children? Could he have saved them all? There was no keeping the Hooded One out, people said. Brannon sighed. Perhaps he still deserved the name Bloodhawk after all.
He turned back to Brother Taran who was following him in. The priest's face was pale. “Be careful not to slip. If you need a break, let me know.”
Outside, one of the city guards vomited on the doorstep. Brannon didn't have the heart to tell him to move. He could only hope the young man wasn't compromising evidence with the contents of his stomach.
“I've seen blood before,” Taran said. “I'm fine.”
Brannon nodded. “I know. But some of these are people you know. That's different.”
Taran said nothing. He hoisted the bag that housed his sample collection kit higher and stepped over the blood.
“Most of the adults are in the room at the end of the hall,” Brannon said. He kept his voice soft but emotionless. There was no need to color the words. Taran would see the horror soon enough. “One of the rooms upstairs had the door broken in. The children are all missing.”
Taran swallowed. “And Magda?”
“I'm sorry, Taran. She's dead.” Brannon paused to grip the younger man on the shoulder in comfort, but the priest pulled away.
“It was the frost wolf?”
Brannon nodded. “It was dark so I didn't get a clear look at the thing itself but Draeson and I have examined the bodies. Some have apparent claw marks, but not all of them bled out. I suspect that means their hearts were solidified like we saw with Eaglin. They probably died quickly. Magda was one of those.”
Taran's Adam's apple moved as he swallowed and he looked away.
Brannon simply stood with the young man, silent. For all that he'd seen many friends die or grieve the death of others in battle, he'd never figured out the right words to make it easier. The best he could offer was company. And in this moment, precious little of that. Every minute they delayed gathering evidence meant another minute Magda's orphans were being held by the frost wolf. They still had no idea why the creature was taking children, and his imagination was no comfort on the subject.
As Brannon waited for Taran to compose himself, Draeson stepped into the hallway from the room they’d been heading toward. The hem of the m
age's trousers had touched the pooled blood at some point, giving the fabric an exotic ombré effect.
“Ahpra's Tears,” the mage said. “It's a Hooded mess in there.”
Brannon nodded. “We need a better idea of what happened. Is there any way you can identify whose blood belongs to whom?”
Draeson shook his head. “We all bleed red, Brannon.”
“I thought . . . the spell you used to make royal blood glow, perhaps?”
“No. That's specific to royal blood and it took me years to develop it. I'm sorry.”
“I can test samples for compounds,” Taran offered quietly. “And then test what's left in the . . . well, I can take samples from each of the victims and see if compounds match.”
Brannon nodded. “Do it. If it works, we might get a picture of who moved where after they were cut. If they didn't have anything interesting in their bloodstream though?”
“Then there will be nothing to compare.” Taran shrugged helplessly.
“Do what you can.”
“You said the victims were adults.” The priest shifted his weight back and forth on his feet. “Who were they?”
“Parents,” Brannon told him. “Of children who have been taken. Magda had gathered them to talk to me.”
“Oh.” Taran stared toward the room where the bodies lay. He shook himself and turned back. “I need a moment, if that's okay.”
Brannon nodded. “Sure. Draeson and I will wait for you inside. Come in when you're ready.”
He led the mage away, back toward the blood-spattered lounge. The horror within had not diminished despite him having seen it before. In early daylight, the corpses took a strangely unreal quality, like broken dolls abandoned by careless children, their blood like spilled finger-paints.
Brannon stood in the room and closed his eyes, counting quietly in his head. When he reached five, he opened them again and turned around. “What's he doing?”
Draeson remained by the door, holding it slightly ajar so it looked closed but left the tiniest sliver open. He peeked through the crack. “He's going upstairs. You were right. How did you know?”
“The stars,” said Brannon.
Draeson raised an eyebrow. “Turning to astronomy in your old age?”
“Not exactly. Let's go.”
They crept out and followed the young priest up the stairs, keeping their footsteps slow and silent on carpets long since worn thin. At the top of the staircase, Brannon turned to the left in time to see Taran step over Lady Magda's corpse without hesitation, then stop, staring through the open door into the cell beyond.
“No,” the young priest said. He stumbled back, his face aghast. “No no no no!”
Brannon and Draeson hurried forward.
Taran turned at their approach, his eyes wide and fearful. “They let her out?”
“So you know who was being kept in this room?” Brannon said.
Taran swallowed, and scrunched his eyes closed as if to block out the truth. “I knew her once,” he said. “And she's far too dangerous to be set free.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Taran stared up at Bloodhawk. He hadn't known Sir Brannon during the war and at times he couldn't reconcile the stories of Brannon the battle berserker with the man who sought to preserve life, both as a physician and investigator. But now he did. The King's Champion was an intimidating man when he wanted to be. It was clear he had questions. And just as clear that Taran could no longer hide the answers.
“I think you'd better start at the beginning,” Brannon said. He folded his arms. “I want to know all of it.”
They were inside the cell that had housed Marbella for years. Star symbols were etched into the walls and drawn with food and filth. The bedsheets were disheveled. A long chain dangled from an aperture in the wall to pool in a tangle of links on the floor. A set of keys was discarded by the door. Somehow Magda's keys had gotten to Marbella—whether a gift from the frost wolf or from Magda herself in an attempt to fight off the creature, Taran couldn't say for sure. But Marbella was gone and Magda was dead—one of Taran's worst nightmares come true.
Magus Draeson pushed the door closed as if to prevent Magda's corpse listening to their conversation. “Any sort of start will do.”
“I . . . um . . .” Taran sat on the edge of Marbella's bed. His hand drifted to his chest and touched the King's Pass medallion that was a comforting hard disc beneath his tunic. He traced its edges with his fingertips. If he used it, Brannon would respect King Aldan's wishes and stop his questioning. Taran could keep his secrets. He shut his eyes and sighed. He let his hand drop back into his lap. If he didn't tell his story now, there would soon be no chance left to tell it at all. It was time to stop keeping secrets. “How much do you know about my past?”
Draeson snorted. “You're hardly old enough to have one.”
Taran blinked at him. It was hard to remember that the mage, despite looking even younger than Taran himself, was approximately four hundred years old.
Brannon ignored the mage's outburst. “I know you were one of the Children of Starlight,” he said. “And that you were raised in the Assassin House, but you defected when they sent you after King Aldan. I don't know why.”
Taran nodded, his lips pressed together in a thin, hard line. The storm of memories spat images into his brain like flashes of intense lightning, bright enough to hurt his eyes and leave an aftershock like thunder in his chest. He remembered the heat burning his skin as he scrambled across the hot desert sand with the footsteps of his classmates at his back, ready to kill him. He remembered his best friend's screams as blood—so much blood—poured down his legs. He remembered the weight of the blade in his hand—the weight of decision to kill or be killed—and the look of surprise in that first victim's face.
He shook himself free of the memories. It was harder now. They were getting jumbled. The stardust was working out of his system. He swallowed and began to speak. “Our training is . . . extensive, you understand. It always starts in childhood because they know that if you grow too old with normal people, you develop empathy. You're too difficult to mold. To . . . forge, I suppose.” He stared at his hands. “Children of Starlight are weapons. To be used by the highest bidder.”
“Where do they get the children?” Brannon asked.
“There's a breeding program. Some they buy from slavers. Some are from the families of targets. They're selective.” Taran shrugged. “I don't know the criteria.”
“And how does this relate to locking a woman up in an orphanage?” Draeson said, his voice wry.
“Let him tell the story,” Brannon said quietly.
“Thank you.” Taran nodded and licked his lips. “Marbella was one of our instructors during training. She taught us . . . she taught us ways to kill. Ways to poison, ways to cut people open, how to make them suffer or make it quick, all depending on what the client wanted. They all taught us that. And we had to . . .” He looked at the floor. “. . . to practice on each other.”
Sir Brannon's voice was incredulous. “When you say you practiced on each other, you mean . . . ?”
Taran nodded. “It was a rite of passage. We drew names and they sent us into the desert to hunt each other. Those who survived passed the test. The others didn't.”
“Didn't anyone rebel? Why would they go along with that?”
The question cut into Taran's conscience. “We were children,” he said quietly. “And before training ever starts, they give you a drink. It's made from a drug called stardust. It's addictive. In every class, they choose one student and refuse to give them more of the drink. In a few days, they go mad. No one wants to say no to them after that. It's how the Children of Starlight protect their secrets. Without stardust, your mind is your torturer. When you've seen it happen to someone you know . . . killing someone doesn't seem so bad.” He closed down on the shame that burned in his chest. There was no making up for the killing. He knew that. But the blame couldn't lie with the child he had been. It lay with t
hose who had abused and manipulated the children in their care. “I was a child.”
“Blood and Tears,” muttered Brannon.
Taran couldn't help but agree. “There was one of us—we called him Mud. I never knew his real name. He tried to organize for us all to refuse the test. He thought they wouldn't waste an entire class to madness.”
“And did they?” Brannon asked.
Taran swallowed. Mud had been so earnest. So determined.
“All we have to do is stand together,” Mud had said. “There's safety in numbers.”
At first, it seemed as though it might work. The students crowded together in the desert, just a short distance from the hidden opening that lead beneath the sand and into the glass tunnels of the House. The sun was hot and high in the mid-afternoon sky and many of the teens had wrapped cloth across their eyes to protect them from the glare. Mud raised his fist in rebellion. “We won't kill our friends just for your test!” he shouted at the closed doors. “We've learned your lessons. We have the skills you want us to have. There's no need to do this just to prove what you already know.”
The other students cheered. Taran cheered with them.
Fressin, older than all of them and a full Child of Starlight now, stood guard at the door. He caught Taran's eye and shook his head. “Don't do this,” he mouthed.
Fressin's message left a chill on Taran's arms despite the heat, but he clung to the ideal in Mud's words. They were already Children of Starlight and they would kill when a mission required it, but that didn't need to mean killing each other. And for a few minutes, it seemed like perhaps they could hold to that ideal.
Then the doors opened. The Father of Starlight stepped out into the sun. Kreegin wore a simple sand-colored tunic and loose pants, the opal choker at his throat the only symbol of his power, but at the sight of him the crowd fell silent. He said nothing, but took a few steps forward so as to be sure everyone could see him. He held out a flask of the stardust tonic and with a calm, deliberate motion, upended it, spilling the precious fluid onto the sand. The thirsty desert drank it down.