by S. C. Stokes
“How was he in prison?” Syrion asked. “A being of such power . . . It makes no sense.”
“He was poisoned by his sons. He may have escaped from their attempted coup. But the poison still coursed through his veins. In his weakened state he took the only path he had left to survive. He bound himself to the Soul Forge. In exchange for the services of the Soul Smith, the forge sustains a smith’s life indefinitely. ‘Death will not take her gatekeeper,’ were his precise words.
“With his life spared he turned his attention to dealing with the poison coursing through his system. Bound to the forge as he was, he could not leave to seek the antidote. He needed someone else to do it. That is where we came into his plot. He needed someone to travel back to his home on Empyrea. It was the seat of his power and also the home of a potent poison known as Mousillion.
“He needed an Astarii to obtain it. The natives of Empyrea are distrustful of visitors, and without magic it is unlikely someone could travel there and return with the antidote. It was just a matter of finding one who would do it. He found us. Through whatever means of scrying he possesses he watched our family for years. When your father and I fell in love, Apollos knew mortality would eventually take its toll. He ensured a Soul Stone made its way into our possession. Then it was only a matter of time until we sought him out.
“His terms were simple. I deliver the Mousillion and restore his health or he would shatter the Soul Stone and your father’s soul would perish there, never to leave this life. I could not allow that to happen. I delivered the cure to him and he was good to his word. He restored your father to life.” Elaina paused in her narrative to allow the gravity of her words to sink in.
“Then what is the problem?” Syrion asked.
“The problem is that once he was cured, Apollos severed his bond to the forge. Now not only is the Soul Forge unmanned, but the most powerful being to have walked the stars in millennia is free, and he has sworn revenge on those who wronged him. We are Astarii, Syrion. I may be in exile, but we are servants of the Allfather. Before he became the Allfather, he was Alphaeus, son of Apollos. When Apollos comes for vengeance it will affect us. It will affect all of Creation.”
“What are we to do?” Syrion asked, genuinely perplexed.
“We must go home and speak with your brother,” Marcus replied. “Whatever happens next, it will affect us all.”
“Agreed,” said Syrion. “But before we go, I want to take a closer look at these Glaciadal.”
“You heard your mother, Syrion,” said Marcus. “It is unwise to trifle with them.”
“I understand that, but it is also unwise to be ignorant of them and their purposes. They might be passive now, but should that change we will find ourselves fighting for our lives without any idea of what they are capable of. That knowledge alone is worth the risk.”
Elaina was reluctant to agree and unwilling to let Syrion venture north alone. “Very well. Let us rest here this evening. We’ll set out in the morning.”
Marcus and Syrion nodded their agreement.
Syrion rose first. “I’ll speak with the guard and organize a room. We can be off at first light.”
As Syrion departed, Marcus turned to Elaina. “Is he always like that?”
“Every day since he could walk,” Elaina replied. “He will not be deterred. I am pretty sure I know who is to blame for that particular quality.” She fixed Marcus with a stare.
Chapter 8
King’s Court, the capital city of Valaar
Tristan paced restlessly in his bed chamber. In the week since the attack he had spent most of his time there, near Linea. Malus had done his best to stabilize her condition, but she still slipped in and out of consciousness, often lost for days at a time. Tristan watched over her day and night, fuming—if the Night Stalkers returned they would not find her alone again. The guard force in the east wing had been trebled, and a veritable wall of steel now stood between the wounded Queen and anyone who might wish her harm.
Tristan had torn the city apart searching for his son, or for a further clue, but to no avail. It was not that he had expected the search to turn anything up. But the activity of searching somehow gave him a sense of purpose.
With their discovery of the fishing vessel they knew the assassins had made it out of the city. The stolen launch had been found by a patrol the next morning, abandoned on the beach not far from where the ship had been moored.
After three days Tristan had been forced to lift the lockdown on the city, so that trade could return. Patrols scoured the countryside searching for any sign of the kidnappers, but Tristan knew the truth in his heart. The trail had gone cold.
In the quiet moments since the attack, Tristan had spent hours agonizing over why the Night Stalkers had taken his son. They had tried to kill Tristan in the past and he had always expected they might return. After all, Night Stalkers were infamous for honoring every contract. They had a reputation to uphold. Once called into service they were known to pursue their target until they died in the pursuit or the sponsor of their contract died. When the Night Stalkers had ceased pursuing him after his victory at King’s Court, Tristan had presumed the sponsor had been one of his rivals—most likely Gerwold, the then-Baron of Belnair. It had been well over a year without incident and Tristan had hoped he was clear of their meddling. But clearly they had been biding their time.
The loss of Eleazar, Master of Coin, had hurt deeply. Eleazer had been a trusted friend and confidant since he had fled to the Guild for refuge. If the Night Stalkers could get to one so close, Tristan worried who else in his council might be in thrall to them. It was a dangerous thought—Tristan could feel the paranoia setting in.
Watch yourself, Tristan; you are seeing enemies where there may be none. He tried to stave off the sinking feeling in his stomach.
But why my son? If the Night Stalkers sought to destabilize his rule, killing the child would have achieved the same result. Failing to kill Linea was also perplexing. Clearly Marius had been the priority, else Linea would certainly have been killed. There is something I am missing.
Sven and his network of agents had been scouring Valaar for any sign of the Night Stalkers. Since Tristan had been crowned, Sven had used the King’s resources to strengthen his network considerably. With agents in every city and town of consequence, it could be only a matter of time before one of them got wind of a lead that could be used to track the assassins. Whatever their game, the stakes were equally high for the Night Stalkers. While they held Marius they had leverage. Should they lose him or, worse yet, decide to kill the boy, Tristan would have nothing to keep him from obliterating the shadowy organization once he located its members.
For generations the Night Stalkers had made their living in the shadows. By avoiding the attention of the Crown, they had managed to carry out their secret works of murder. It was always easier for the court to turn a blind eye to the untimely death of a lesser noble than to confront the blight festering within their society. Now they had strayed onto a path from which they could not return. With the resources of an entire Kingdom behind him, Tristan would see them wholly destroyed. All he needed was a clue to their whereabouts, and sooner or later it would turn up. Then he would bring all of Valaar crashing down upon their heads.
Tristan wished for the thousandth time that Syrion or his mother was around. If nothing else, he wished to counsel with them on what course of action he should take. He felt paralyzed, unable to leave the Palace for fear of leaving Linea alone. It felt like forever since his family had sent word—hopefully they would return soon.
Exhausted, in spite of having barely left the room all day, Tristan slumped down on the bed. He unlaced his boots and kicked them off, then with a heavy sigh, he lay down beside Linea. Putting an arm around her, Tristan closed his eyes and passed fitfully off to sleep.
Chapter 9
Tristan startled awake. Dazed and confused, he looked about the chamber. Knock, knock, knock—the heavy pounding on the door
resumed. Recognizing the noise that had roused him from his slumber, Tristan dragged himself out of bed. A glance at the window showed the faint light of dawn at the horizon.
Bleary eyed, Tristan made his way to the door and opened it. Sven stood there looking every bit as tired as Tristan felt, and in his outstretched hand he held a piece of parchment. “Your highness, I’m sorry to wake you, but this could not wait.”
“What is it, Sven?” Tristan asked, reaching for the parchment and turning it over. It was stained red and had a gaping hole at one end. Tristan raised an eyebrow and looked at Sven.
“It is a letter, sire. It was found this morning along with the body of a murdered King’s Guard. That note was pinned to his chest with a kama. It is addressed to you.”
Tristan hastily examined the parchment and read it aloud:
To Tristan Listar, the false King of Valaar.
As you are well aware, I have your son in my possession. Rest assured he is healthy and well. Whether he remains that way depends entirely on you.
I know that you are scouring the island looking for your child—that is only natural. But your efforts are futile, as he is hidden where none but the Night Stalkers have ever walked. If you wish to see him safely returned to you, you have one course of action and one alone.
You are to abdicate the throne immediately, it belonged to Gerwold. You only gained it by murder and deception and you have sat upon it for too long already.
You have taken everything from me, but I will have it back. Know this now—I will require your life in exchange for that of your son. If you resist, your son will die. If you do as I instruct, he will be permitted to live out the remainder of his life in his mother’s care.
How is the Queen faring? My agents tell me she survived as intended, and that is fortunate for you. If you deny me, my agents will return. When they do her death will be swift.
There is nowhere you are safe—you have but one path before you. Embrace it and your death will be painless. Resist me and I will strip from you everything you hold dear, and then and only then will I end your miserable life.
I await your action.
Death’s Mistress
Tristan clenched his fist, scrunching the missive and flinging it on the ground. “She will pay for this, Sven. That wretched witch. . .”
“Hitomi.” Sven answered, he had reached the same conclusion when he had first read the parchment.
“Indeed, she is the only real possibility now. The reference to Gerwold’s death as murder confirms my suspicion that the Night Stalkers are acting on behalf of one of our old enemies. The Baron of Fordham and Velas of the Mizumura are still in the dungeon, stripped of their titles and fortunes—they could no longer be funding the Night Stalkers’ attempts,” Tristan declared.
Sven nodded his agreement. “I reached the same conclusion, sire. Gerwold and Falen are dead. There is only one who slipped through our grasp—Princess Hitomi. When Syrion and the Guild took the Black Iron Keep, Falen died but Hitomi escaped.”
The Guild were an underground resistance in the city of Belnair. They had taken Tristan in after he had fled the destruction of his home at Listarii Manor. In turn Tristan and the Guild had then been instrumental in thwarting Gerwold’s move on the Golden Throne.
“It’s hard to believe that prissy little Princess is capable of such murder.”
“But believe it we must,” sire. “When I spoke with Syrion he confided that he was responsible for Falen’s death. Before Syrion breached his chambers, Falen was thrown through the keep’s window and plummeted to his death in the courtyard below. Syrion believes it was Hitomi’s doing and that she used the confusion to escape the city. With the battle for King’s Court looming we had no chance to pursue her. The letter was signed ‘Death’s Mistress,’ and Hitomi fits that title better than any other I know of.”
Sven shook his head, still putting the pieces together. “It’s worse than you think, Tristan. If you are correct, then Hitomi is not just the sponsor of the Night Stalkers’ contract—she is herself the head of the Night Stalkers. When I killed the Night Stalker that attacked you in the catacombs the last words he muttered were, ‘My Lady.’ It didn’t make any sense to me then, but now with that note . . . I think it’s possible that the Night Stalkers answer to her. It would explain why they continue to pursue you. It also explains how she managed to disappear so completely. It seems the Princess is far more than she once appeared to be.”
“Not for long, Sven. When I find her, I will end her. If only we knew where to begin,” Tristan replied grimly.
“She was spotted attempting to enter the Riverhold, but that was after the battle for King’s Court. You had already taken power there. When the guards tried to arrest her she killed two and fled. We supposed she would show up again sooner or later but she never did. She must have taken refuge in whatever hole the Night Stalkers dwell in.”
“Then we will ensure that we are right—we will find that hole and bury them in it,” Tristan declared.
“The ties with the Mizumura are deep, as you know,” Sven continued. “They might be operating from within the Mizumuran ancestral lands. Hitomi’s disappearance led us there. The launch from the fishing vessel likewise was found northwest of King’s Court. We just need to be sure. We’ll get only one chance to tighten the noose, and if we guess wrong they will slip away once more.”
“So we must deliberate . . .” Tristan mused. “Do you still have the Night Stalker you took prisoner?”
“I do, but he’s dead, my King. He didn’t survive the questions I had for him.” Sven regretted handling the matter too quickly.
“Dead will do fine,” said Tristan. “Pen a response. Feign that we are acquiescing to her demands. Pin it to whatever remains of her agent, make sure he can be recognized and string him up in the field outside the city. When they come for their answer, trail them. If they head northwest we will know we are right.”
“What about the Prince, Tristan? If we go after them, they will kill him.”
“No matter what we do, Sven, they will kill him. If I do as they ask, I will die, then she will kill him anyway. If I believed for a moment they would spare him, I would lay down my life in an instant. These assassins have no honor. Marius’s only hope is if we can find him before it’s too late. If we can entrap them they will have to bargain for their lives. They won’t kill him as long as they can use him as a hostage.”
“It’s a terrible risk, sire.”
“It is all I can do. I wish there were another way.”
“Then I will make my preparations and pray that it doesn’t come to that,” Sven replied, bowing deeply, before departing.
In spite of a terrible night’s sleep, Tristan felt better than he had in days. He was no longer fighting a shadow. His enemy now had a form, a face and a name. You can kill a name, Tristan told himself as he reached for his boots.
Chapter 10
When Tristan was crowned King of Valaar, he made a number of appointments, both public and private. Sven’s appointment as Spymaster was one of the latter. To the public, Sven served as an emissary of the King, a position that afforded him the freedom to travel throughout Valaar without compromising his true purpose.
Sven had served faithfully as the head of intelligence gathering for the Guild, and in Tristan’s eyes there was no better man for keeping a finger on the pulse of King’s Court than he.
As Sven slowly stretched his muscles he couldn’t help but sigh. With his appointment to the greater role, he might have expected to spend less time in the field. Surely a man in his position would delegate such matters to those who served underneath his watchful eye. Such was not in Sven’s nature. While his network of agents was vast and capable there was not a man or woman alive he would trust this task to.
The Night Stalkers had been foolish enough to open a dialog with the King, and in doing so they had given Sven the first solid lead since the infant Prince’s violent abduction. With the Prince’s life at stake
, Sven would entrust the task to no other.
At Sven’s instruction, as directed by the King, the slain Night Stalker had been strung up by the road leading to King’s Court. Affixed to the assassin’s chest with his own kama was a letter detailing the King’s response to their demands. The letter, prepared by Sven, feigned acceptance of the kidnappers’ terms. Their hope was that further correspondence would allow them the time they needed to locate and rescue the Prince.
Sven watched carefully as the King’s Guard followed his instructions to the letter. Once the assassin’s body was in place they departed, leaving Sven alone to watch and wait for any sign that the Night Stalkers would receive the response. All day and into the night Sven lay hidden in the ditch, leaves and dead fall concealing him from sight.
This is a far cry from Palace life, Sven thought to himself as he slowly stretched his limbs. Lying stationary or quietly raised to hands and knees and back for so long had caused his body to begin to cramp. With carefully measured motions Sven stretched each arm in turn, then moved on to his legs, all the while taking care to ensure he didn’t unsettle the dead fall concealing his position. An inopportune rustle of leaves or tumbling of timbers would be all a Night Stalker would need to discover his position, and the opportunity would be lost.
A rumbling in his stomach reminded Sven just how long it had been since he had eaten a solid meal. Reaching for the pouch at his belt, he removed a piece of jerked meat and quietly slid it into his mouth. The simple morsel took the edge off his hunger.