By Blood Hunted: Kingsblood Chronicles Part Two (The Kingsblood Chronicles Book 2)

by David J. Houpt

  He had preparations to make now, and the immediate question that sprang to mind was whether he should break the link with his unknown watcher or not. The sample of blood or flesh he’d lost in Avethiel—he was certain it had been there—was no doubt magically preserved and protected, but he had at least one advantage over his opponent.

  The spellsinger had no choice but to open the thaumaturgic link’s defenses in order to use the material to spy on Celewyn. And that meant he could use thaumaturgy himself to destroy it at that juncture. The wizard would know, unfortunately, because the linkage to the elf would be destroyed utterly and instantly, but it was an unavoidable consequence of taking that option. If he’s here in Kavris and seen me directly, or if he knows me personally, Celewyn thought, that won’t necessarily protect me from further divination, but it will provoke him. Although he used the male pronoun in his thoughts and preparations, he didn’t make any assumption about the gender, race, or age of his foe. A troll matriarch could just as easily be after him—and Lian—as a Dunshorian sorcerer. And if he’s used but a portion of the blood or flesh to focus his magic and has kept some in reserve against further need, I won’t be destroying anything important.

  Alerted against Celewyn’s knowledge of the thaumaturgy, this anonymous adversary would make additional preparations and strengthen his defenses against discovery.

  If he beat me here to Kavris, Celewyn thought further, it means he’s capable of apportation or had a magical partner down here to link up with. No ship afloat could have made the crossing from Avethiel to Kavris faster than fleet Iliuthien, save possibly Searcher, of that he was certain.

  Teleportation was one of the most difficult of all magics, for the wizard had not only to focus his will to the point he could twist reality so that between one step and another he could cross any distance, but doing so, visualize both the departure point and the arrival point clearly in his mind. And do all of that while singing any of a dozen sternly challenging songs without error. Far easier to open a portal between two spellsingers, joining their music and magic together in a harmony such that each provided half of the mystical equation. Skilled journeymen and Masters could carry out such magic in tandem; only highly skilled and disciplined Master magicians could do it alone.

  Accepting the idea that it’s a single enemy, that limits my enemies to a half dozen at most, Celewyn thought, filtering through his memories of the sorcerers who pursued the path of the assassin.

  Keth? he pondered, initially rejecting the tall, willowy northerner almost out of hand. Kethrielle wouldn’t have answered Rishak’s call any more than Celewyn, and for many of the same reasons. No honor among thieves and assassins was the age-old adage, but Kethrielle and he were the exceptions that proved the rule, as his mother had been fond of saying. Still, times change, and so, too, the hearts of humans, he continued, changing his mind about excluding the dangerous sorceress and keeping her in the small rogues’ gallery in his head.

  Likewise, he left Rogos the Lucky and Delic Sabat on the list despite their personal dislike of Dunshor in general and the former Grand Duke personally. For a large enough reward, old hatreds might be set aside, at least long enough to collect. Plus, Delic might take such a contract if he knew it was me he’d be hunting, he added to himself. Sabat had never forgiven him for past transgressions; that it had been Sabat’s arrogance and inexperience to blame mattered little to the diminuitive assassin, and he’d tried to set the elf’s end in motion before.

  Ammon? he thought, considering the Easterner he’d met a few times over the long years. Though human, the mage had extended his lifespan considerably and the last time Celewyn had seen him appeared to be a man no more than middle-aged, though he was close to a century old. He’s certainly capable of playing the Game at this level, he thought, setting the Easterner aside for the moment as he considered the others on his list.

  He doubted it was Sel’ss’rak, and found that he also hoped it wasn’t. The kossir-teh sorceress was millennia older than the Avani elf, and even legend failed to plumb the depths of her power, skill, and treachery. Stronger and larger by far than most mortals, the former priestess-turned-killer was also difficult to miss. If she had taken my blood, however, he thought, I doubt I would have noticed the wound. She was nothing if not cautious, planning for decades if necessary to carry out her schemes. The taking of his blood struck him as an act performed quickly, without time to plan a better approach. Whoever it was saw me in Avethiel, he thought, believing he wouldn’t have failed to notice the eight-foot tall, feather-plumed lizard in the elven city.

  That left two men on his list: Phesarysis, also known as the Ghost, and Garayw’d Onethe. In his prime, the Ghost would have been at the top of his list, but the years had not been kind to Phesarysis. Of course, he might have finally done something about time’s passing, Celewyn conceded. Stealing someone’s youth was black magic, but someone like the Ghost wouldn’t balk at using it to prolong his long and wicked life. That he hadn’t to date—at least three years before when Celewyn saw him in the western kingdoms as a stooped, somewhat wretched old man—didn’t mean that he hadn’t done so since.

  The Avani didn’t understand why the Ghost had allowed himself to grow as physically old as he had; the man he’d seen in the western part of Shara would have had difficulty defending himself from common street toughs, much less carrying out a contracted assassination. Or defending himself from one. Assassins at their level attracted enemies, to be sure.

  The Ghost’s infirmity was a mystery but not likely to be one relevant to the discussion at hand. Unless that’s the coin they’re offering, I suppose, he thought, though that didn’t make a lot of sense. The Ghost was more than wealthy enough to hire a wizard capable of restoring his youth; he wouldn’t need the Dunshorian Crown’s help for that.

  On the other hand, Onethe was a mage-assassin cut from the same cloth as Ammon, though younger. Despite his relative youth—he had yet to cross the quarter-century mark—Onethe was a truly talented spellsinger, though his skill at the physical side of the trade was far below the standards of the rest of the beings on Celewyn’s list (and the Avani himself). If it’s Garayw’d, thought Celewyn, he’ll be working with a partner, someone who can handle the fighting. Onethe needed no help, and likely would resent such, with the magic.

  He disliked making so many assumptions, but at this point he was desperately lacking hard facts. He didn’t want to settle on the single mage-assassin as the only option, but it seemed the most likely for a number of reasons, the most important of which is that working alone meant not having to share the payment. Celewyn had not become an assassin for money, and like his brother, tended to think of wealth as a tool to be expended when the situation called for it. But most of the ones on his little list, with the exception of the kossir-teh, were in it for the money as well as the pleasures to be had.

  Unlike many of the men and women in his trade, he didn’t take pleasure from the act of killing. He killed without hesitation and without mercy, but it was part of the work, not an end in and of itself. Celewyn did take great personal pleasure in completing a well-planned and well-executed mission, especially if it was particularly challenging and forced him to stretch himself in some new way. He wasn’t addicted to danger—one did not usually survive in this business by taking foolish chances—but he appreciated danger like a connoisseur of fine wines appreciated a rare vintage.

  But none of these would want to share the payoff, he thought, even Keth. If they can pull this off alone, they will, and there’s the added bonus of overcoming the Shadow to factor in. He was a realist about his abilities and limitations, but he was well aware of the stories and legends that surrounded him and imparted in him a mystique of the immortal and unstoppable. That reputation had been useful a great many times over the centuries, as often as it had caused him grief. In this case, he rather thought his reputation would be acting on his behalf. His enemy would want to best Celewyn at the Game, maybe even kill the Shadow himself,
to add to his own legend and reputation.

  So how do I turn this threat into an asset? the Shadow wondered. How do I make this enemy my tool, to help me reach my goal while spoiling his? He didn’t know yet, but it might come to him in time, and then the prey would become the hunter once again.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ ^

  Ammon watched patiently as Celewyn went about his business in Kavris, first visiting a number of old buildings around the city, retrieving something, although the Easterner wasn’t able to see what, from several of them. He then found a moneylender and exchanged one of those somethings for a significant amount of Southron currency. To his mild annoyance, whatever the tall Avani elf had traded was completely invisible to his scrying abilities, making it look like he’d handed over thin air to the banker. Though Ammon wondered what the item was, it was irrelevant to the job at hand. He was certain it wasn’t the figurine; the elf would have paid the moneylender to protect that, for one thing, and for another, Ammon didn’t think that Celewyn would let it out of his possession and control for a moment.

  After a time, the Iliuthien’s captain met up with his fellow Avani in a tavern, and Ammon could read a little of the exchange on their lips. Baenriraelin seemed to be delivering a list of names with short descriptive phrases, while Celewyn listened with seemingly his complete attention; Ammon knew he was also aware of his surroundings despite appearances. Once Baen finished, the two sipped their drinks in companionable silence and then both rose and bowed with their fingertips at their breasts; a traditional Avani farewell.

  I would have guessed they were friends, Ammon thought as he maintained the spell that let him continue watching his quarry. Their farewell gesture was appropriate for close acquaintances but not kith or kin.

  The Avani assassin moved quickly into the strand that served Southron ships, passing almost unseen among the humans of the city as evening began to fall. He wasn’t particularly trying to be secretive in his movements, but stealth was something that came to Celewyn naturally. From his vantage at the scrying bowl, Ammon could not help admiring the grace and beauty of the blonde elf. And, he admitted to himself, to envy the eternal youth granted to the children of Rula Golden and Sineh.

  His magic was sufficient to slow his aging processes but not to halt or reverse them, and though he was perfectly willing to end the lives of others to pursue his deadly career, he found that he had limits to what he was willing to do to extend his own. Driving a life-stealing spell by drinking down the souls of others was to head—even to hurtle—down a path that he had no wish to tread at all. Many of Ammon and Celewyn’s fellow assassins would, he was sure, hold this self-imposed limitation in contempt, to see it as a weakness born of compassion. And they would say that compassion is something that no assassin can afford.

  Ammon didn’t see it that way. Instead, he saw the path of the dark mage to be synonymous with eventual corruption and destruction. He had no illusions about his own nature; he was a killer of men and women, a hunter who preys upon his fellows. But those who performed black magic were ever tempted into darker, fouler magics, to push back the boundaries of their power. And he believed that process, if he began to follow the dark mage’s path, would slowly and inexorably peel away his morality and humanity until Ammon became nothing more than a soulless shell driven by lust for power, fear of death, and the vengeance of the gods, leaving him without the slightest remorse, no matter what he did.

  He was a murderer many times over, but his chosen profession had its place in the world. It had an honor of a sort, though many assassins were little better than cutthroats without even a trace of integrity. And so he aged a little more every year rather than compromise his honor by stealing someone’s life and soul.

  Had Celewyn known Ammon’s thoughts, he would have understood perfectly.

  The Avani moved about the strand, taking the measure of several ships in the glooming light and settling on a sixty-foot, two-masted caravel, which he hailed and then boarded, presumably after the watch granted him permission. He spoke to two men on the ship’s main deck at length. Though human, Ammon’s eyes saw through the darkness as well as any elf or goblin’s, but the distance to the strand across the bay from his apartments prevented him from seeing the scene clearly enough in the scrying bowl to read anyone’s lips. Still, they seemed to be haggling, and after a time money appeared to change hands. It was difficult to tell for certain with the distortion of the image, but it seemed likely.

  So he’s hired a ship to take him after Lian, Ammon thought, frowning as he pondered the situation. He wasn’t worried about keeping up with the small ship, but getting access to Celewyn and the trinket he was using to track the prince would be more challenging. He was more interested in the fact that Celewyn obviously planned to leave Kavris in fairly short order.

  Why does he not plan to wait for Indigo Runner’s arrival? the assassin wondered. Unless Lian commandeered the ship, Captain Qan would hardly let him change the destination. It was possible, he supposed, that the prince had possessed enough money to tempt Qan into changing his destination, but that seemed unlikely. No, the figurine must have told Celewyn that the quarry had changed course, and now he needed a ship to go after him. He turned his mind and attention back to the vessel itself.

  The ship’s crewed by humans, Ammon noted, and it’s not going to put out at night even on the full-tide, no matter what he’s offered them. On the other hand, the tide peaks again two hours after dawn, so I don’t have much time to make preparations before they could depart.

  The two closest—and largest—moons, Lushran and Aliera, were nearly in opposite phase at this time of year, ten days after midyear. Lushran would rise shortly after noon, while Aliera would set less than an hour afterward, placing them on almost opposite sides of Tieran. This configuration was one of two that produced the powerful full-tides that could completely if temporarily change the lay of a coastline.

  Ammon wasn’t an astrologer, so he didn’t understand the why of this, but he certainly understood the effect. Any wizard worth his salt learned to track the positions of the two tidal moons, along with the patterns of the other four, for the different positions, eclipses, and other configurations could have a powerful amplifying or attenuating effect on magic.

  He knew from his seagoing experiences that when mighty Lushran and silver Aliera were in opposite phase the full-tides came, sometimes monstrous in their extent and power, and were more moderate in strength when the moons were in phase with one another. The weaker mid-tide was Lushran’s effect by himself, and the ebb-tide was the name for Aliera’s. There were seasonal effects as well, but since both tidal moons followed the same pattern year-to-year, these were apparently predictable, though Ammon wasn’t familiar with them. He’d simply never had the need to learn the secrets of the Pilot’s Guild.

  He decided that he probably had some time before this ship would leave, however. It was extremely unlikely that the caravel would depart until the dark moon crossed from Tieran’s orbit into Lushran’s, at the end of the season of Dalshana. Beginning a sea voyage during the evil goddess’ time, even though her moon was slipping further away by the day, was considered a very bad omen.

  That would give him about four days, five at the outside, to gather intelligence and make his preparations. He’d have to make quiet enquiries among the sailors to see what he could learn about this particular ship and its crew. That would be dangerous, for Celewyn might be enlisting agents throughout Kavris’ merchant marine by way of Captain Baenriraelin or one of his officers. Agents instructed to listen for those who might be making those quiet inquiries. He had a few reliable contacts in the Southron city, and he’d have to be completely clear on his instructions to those men. Not having a piece of information about the elf’s intentions wasn’t agreeable, but it was vastly preferable to being discovered.

  It’s not like I won’t know if Celewyn actually leaves Kavris, he thought as he gently fingered the tiny phial of blood. I’ll have time to react to his movements
if that happens, even if he hires a mage to teleport him.

  Of course, he conceded, in that case, I’d have to take Lian’s head from him instead of the trinket. He took some time to consider that option but decided that it was still the less risky path to steal the object and find Lian himself, rather than try to stop Celewyn from turning in the prize. After all, if he got the figurine and evaded Celewyn, he’d only have to deal with the young fugitive instead of both the prince and elf at nearly the same time.

  His attention snapped fully onto Celewyn, who was leaving the caravel and heading back from the Trade Hold, as the region across the bay was called; in a northern city, it would have been called the merchant’s quarter. On the way he crossed into the Low Hold, Kavris’ thieves’ quarter, a warren of ramshackle hovels on the landward side of the city. Once there, he visited two specific buildings, both larger and better maintained than the surrounding neighborhood. They were also far more defensible, for these were rogues’ dens, headquarters of various mid- and high-ranked thieves in the Kavris organizations. The elf purchased a number of items—exactly what, Ammon couldn’t see—as he went, also making some kind of arrangements at each building.

  He’s clearly well-financed, Ammon thought, for the expressions of the humans he was dealing with indicated satisfaction. He also knows the local Thieves’ Guild, it seems, he thought with a sigh. It had been too much to hope for, that the elf wouldn’t have knowledge of Kavris’ underworld. When Ammon had come to Kavris, he’d made contact with a few of the thieves with whom he’d had past dealings, but he didn’t really want his presence in the city known, so he’d avoided both the Thieves’ Guild and the Assassins’ Guild for the most part.

  Technically, his failure to report his presence to the latter meant he could be treated as a non-guilded assassin. Extra-guild assassins usually met a bitter end at the hands of the guilded ones, and vice-versa, but he wasn’t about to advertise his presence here. If he killed Celewyn (or had killed Lian) here, he might have had trouble from the Assassins’ Guild, assuming he hadn’t left Kavris immediately thereafter. Some guilds had long reaches, to be sure, but not across the wide seas to the northern continent, and Ammon planned to leave Vella for Dunshor as soon as he obtained proof of the prince’s demise.