The Shadowhand Covenant

by Brian Farrey

  Kolo pointed upward. “We can get you into the palace. You just have to find the Sourcefire and bring it to me.”

  Ma and Da, who usually faced danger with a sense of playful abandon, were growing more concerned.

  Da started struggling with his bonds. “You’re not sending my son into that. Send me. I’m a master burglar. I can be in and out in no time. Just tell me where to find the Sourcefire—”

  “You’re a master thief, Mr. Grimjinx,” Kolo said calmly. “Given time and the right resources, I’ve no doubt you could return with the Sourcefire and leave the Palatinate none the wiser. But time is short.” He took a pocket watch from the table and wound it. “Right now, the Palace is filled with young apprentices. Jaxter’s age gives him natural camouflage.”

  Kolo handed me the pocket watch. If the time was correct, it was midafternoon. “You have until sunset to bring me the Sourcefire.”

  “That’s just a few hours!” I protested.

  Kolo ignored the interruption. “At the end of the day, I’m igniting the tinderjack. I assure you there’s more than enough in that cave to destroy the palace and all those in it five times over. If you return with the Sourcefire, you’ll all go free. If you don’t return, your parents and Maloch will be in the room with the tinderjack.”

  My jaw clenched as I tried to contain my anger. I couldn’t believe I had been ready to give up my apprenticeship with the Dowager to study with Kolo. Sure, he was brilliant. But he was also completely insane.

  “If you try to warn the Palatinate,” Kolo said, raising a cautionary finger, “I’ll ignite the tinderjack right away with your family and friend in the room. I have people watching the exits of the palace to make sure there are no evacuations. Understood?”

  I met his eyes with my own steely glare. “And when I bring you the Sourcefire and you’ve used it to destroy the Covenant, then what?”

  Kolo’s eye twitched. He hadn’t been expecting that.

  Ma leaned in. “Destroy the Covenant? What are you talking about?”

  “The Covenant is magical and can only be destroyed by magic, right?” I asked. Ma nodded. “That’s why he needs the Sourcefire. For all the ways Kolo has found to thwart magic with natural means, not even the most magic-resistant plant is enough to negate the power of the Covenant. The Sourcefire’s the only thing powerful enough.”

  “But why?” Maloch said, teetering in his chair as he yanked at the ropes that held his hands.

  “Haven’t you guessed, Maloch?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at the Sarosan leader. “Kolo is the traitor.”

  23

  The Traitor’s Story

  “Believe deeds, not words, but use words to forge deeds.”

  —Ancient par-Goblin proverb

  Kolo’s back went rigid. The others stared at me, dumbfounded.

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m just mad at myself for not figuring it out sooner. My first clue was the iceclovers. He made a tincture that he used to stop the pain in his arms. Just now, he put them in his tea. In his new book, he talks about how iceclovers can soothe the symptoms of Mardem’s Blight . . . which he got from the Covenant by betraying the Shadowhands.”

  I walked over to Kolo and yanked on his sleeve. He hissed in pain. There, up and down the arms that he hid from view at all times, were a series of bloody lesions from Mardem’s Blight.

  “He’s a . . . Shadowhand?” Maloch could barely spit out the word.

  “I should have realized it sooner. He speaks par-Goblin,” I said. “My guess is he’s actually a former Shadowhand, like Ma. That’s how he was able to lead his people through the Dagger. He went there knowing any Shadowhands who hadn’t fallen victim to the tingroat trap would head to the Dagger to find out who the traitor was. He got there first and switched the Covenant with a fake that had a shimmerhex.”

  “But he’s not a mage,” Maloch said. “How did he put a shimmerhex on the fake Covenant that Dylis grabbed?”

  I took a guess. “A shimmerhex is a curse. It’s contagious. All he had to do was use one of the cursed tingroats and touch it to the fake Covenant.”

  Kolo turned around, a curious smile stretched across his wrinkled face. He reached into his robes and produced the real Covenant. The gray parchment had a faint blue aura around it. He pulled it open, revealing a long list of names. The twelve names at the very bottom were clear and untouched; Yab Oxter was one of them. All the names above it were crossed off. When I found Ma’s name, I realized that the crossed-off names must all be former Shadowhands, either dead or retired. Halfway up the list, a fiery orange glow burned around the name Kolohendriseenax.

  “It’s been a very long time since I was a Shadowhand,” Kolo said, rerolling the scroll. “One of the youngest ever inducted. About five years older than you are now, Jaxter. I was a master burglar. But like most thieves, I couldn’t beat magical traps. Then, one day, I was running from some Palatinate Sentinels, and I hid under a phillanis bush. They used their magic to sweep the forest looking for me . . . but phillanis is magic-resistant and they couldn’t find me. That began my fascination with magic-resistant plants.

  “I started studying them, trying to figure out how to use them in my burglaries. Some of my fellow Shadowhands said I was becoming obsessed with my studies. I’ll admit, I became sloppy in my thieving, even tripping magical traps on purpose during a heist in an effort to try out my countermeasures. Eventually, the other Shadowhands gave me an ultimatum: stop my experiments or be drummed out of the group.”

  “They forced you out?” I asked.

  “Hardly. Anyone who chooses to leave the Shadowhands may. They’re still bound by the Covenant and can never betray the group. But anyone forced to leave is a danger. It’s only ever happened twice in Shadowhand history. Those who were kicked out were knocked unconscious, only to wake up days later on a ship leaving the Provinces. So I faked my death before they could vote me out. I hid by going on a journey. The one you read about in the Formulary.”

  Kolo sat in his chair. “I learned everything I could about beating magic the natural way. I joined the Sarosans and adopted their ways. By the time they made me their leader, I’d grown to hate magic as much as they did. In all that time, I never forgot what the Shadowhands had done to me.

  “Then several months ago, through sheer dumb luck, I was presented with a chance to get revenge on the Shadowhands. It was too good to pass up. I disguised myself, hired the Shadowhands to pillage the royal vaults, and . . . well, you know the rest.”

  “But in the process,” Da said quietly, “you’ve endangered your own people. They’ve been hunted, harassed. Most of them are in misery, wasting away in Umbramore Tower.”

  Kolo nodded. “And I will atone for that. It was a calculated risk I had to take. Once the Palatinate is gone, I’ll be able to free them, and they’ll see that their incarceration was a small price to pay for the utter annihilation of magic in our world. You’ll see. They’ll understand.”

  My mouth went dry. Kolo had been willing to sacrifice the people who’d made him their leader just to get his revenge. The man was clearly not mentor material.

  “So you want to destroy the Covenant to get rid of the evidence that shows you betrayed the Shadowhands?” Maloch asked.

  “That’s part of it, I’m sure,” I said to Maloch. I pointed to Kolo’s arms. “The lesions are just the first symptom of Mardem’s Blight. It’s incurable, and it’ll eventually kill him. But it’s a disease with a magical origin, and—”

  “—and if I can destroy the magic responsible for the disease,” Kolo finished, holding up the Covenant, “I’ll be cured.”

  The Covenant was old and powerful magic. Normally, he’d need a high-ranking mage to destroy it. But since he couldn’t exactly ask the Palatinate to help . . . “The Sourcefire is one of the few things powerful enough to destroy the Covenant. Once that happens, the Mardem’s Blight goes away,” I said.

  Maloch fired off a single, short laugh. “In case you forgot, Jaxter nearly got us a
ll killed with the vessapedes. He’s a klutz. You should send me.”

  I looked at Maloch. What did he have in mind? True, his thieving skills may have been ever-so-slightly better than my own, but I couldn’t imagine him offering to take my place just to save me.

  Kolo was about to object when Maloch continued. “Send both of us. Increases the chances of finding it. We can split up and get to it faster.”

  Well, so much for wanting to save me.

  Kolo considered. Then he walked behind Maloch’s chair and untied the ropes.

  “I can’t fault your logic,” Kolo said. “But Maloch, just in case you had any ideas about running for help while Jaxter finds the Sourcefire, let me tell you something: I know where your father is. Even if the threat of me killing the Grimjinxes means nothing to you, keep in mind that I’m the only one who can tell you how to find him.”

  Maloch’s pursed lips suggested he was holding back a retort. Instead, he bowed his head in compliance. Kolo clapped his hands and Warras entered. “Take Jaxter and Maloch to the Palatinate,” Kolo told the Aviard. Then he turned and gave us his final instructions. “Sunset, boys. You have until then to return with the Sourcefire. Otherwise—”

  “We get it,” I said tersely, walking from the tent before Warras could push us out.

  We were about to infiltrate the most heavily guarded stronghold in the land, next to the High Laird’s palace. We didn’t need to be reminded what was at stake.

  We needed a miracle.

  24

  The Palatinate Palace

  “The bad thief acts. The wise thief listens . . . and then blames the bad thief.”

  —The Lymmaris Creed

  Warras escorted us to a small alcove near the camp. A rickety ladder disappeared into the rocky ceiling, ending at a smooth square stone.

  “Push up on the stone,” the Aviard instructed, his wings fluttering, “and you’ll be inside the palace.”

  “Since you were so eager to come . . . ,” I said to Maloch, stepping aside so he could ascend first. Maloch pushed Warras aside and climbed. Gripping the ladder with one hand, he used the other to shove the stone. It made a harsh grinding noise as it slid out of the way. Warm, golden light streamed down into the cave, the scent of bleach not far behind. Maloch continued the rest of the way up, and I followed.

  The secret entrance brought us into a small room filled with great wooden tubs containing soapy water. Mounds of robes sat in baskets against the far wall. Large hooks, glowing gold with magic, hovered near the ceiling. Every so often, a hook would dip down, pick up a robe, and dunk it into one of the tubs. Wooden paddles moved on their own, churning the water in the tubs. A moment later, the hook would retrieve the newly washed robe and deposit it on a rope strung across the room, leaving it to dry.

  “The laundry room?” Maloch asked.

  “What were you expecting?” I said. “The chambers of the Lordcourt?”

  I walked down to the laundry basket and chose two gray robes. “Bangers!” I said, slipping one over my head. “This should make disguising ourselves as apprentices easier.”

  Maloch took the other robe from me and put it on. He sniffed and grimaced. “It smells.”

  I took a whiff. “Yeah, but it still smells better than you normally do.”

  Maloch raised a fist, but I left the room before he could swing. Together, we moved cautiously down a corridor made of smooth gray mordenstone. The hall ended in a juncture that looked like a wheel spoke. Seven other halls shot out around us, none offering any clue as to where to go next.

  “This place is huge,” I said. “How are we going to find the Sourcefire?” I pulled out the watch Kolo had given me. We didn’t have much time.

  We chose a corridor at random and walked until we came to a door on the left. “We have to start somewhere,” Maloch said, yanking on the door handle.

  A blast of heat met us as we entered the room beyond. Columns of fire rose from great circular pits that covered the floor. The sound of metal pounding metal echoed throughout the room. Sparkling mounds of tiny rocks lined the walls, nearly reaching the ceiling. We quickly took cover behind one of the rock piles. I reached out, grabbed a sparkly handful, and studied it.

  “It’s gold ore,” I said, tossing the raw stones aside. “This is some kind of forge.”

  In the center of the room, four mages—the spellspheres in their palms pulsing with magical energy—were manipulating the operations. With a gesture, the first mage would lift a massive chunk of the gold ore up into the air and deposit it lightly into one of the fiery pits. As a smooth stream of glowing, molten gold oozed from the pit down a shaft, the second mage would direct pools of liquid ore into circular molds as wide and deep as a hand. The third mage, manipulating an arsenal of giant, floating hammers, would pound the molten metal, sending sparks flying into the air. As the golden disks took shape, the fourth mage would magically marry the disks with gold chains and send the finished products flying across the room to hang from pegs in the walls.

  “Maloch?” I asked. “Every mage in the land is hiding here because they think the Sarosans are trying to kill them. Why is this lot making jewelry?”

  Maloch discovered a rack of finished medallions nearby and snagged one. “There’s writing on them. Magical symbols. Hey, weren’t the bloodreavers wearing those?”

  He was right. I recalled the bloodreavers wearing identical medallions around their necks. “Hey, you know what those look like? Those are—”

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice from behind made us both jump. We turned to find a tall mage with spiky white hair, wearing azure and black robes, towering over us. His left eye had been replaced with a multifaceted ruby that seemed to wink at us a hundred times whenever it caught the light.

  “We’re . . . lost?” I said. My hand slid to the pouches under my robes. I grabbed a handful of smoke pellets, preparing for a quick exit.

  “Your work here is done,” the one-eyed mage said angrily. “Didn’t you hear the bell? Why do you think the other apprentices left?”

  Maloch and I looked around innocently.

  “Oh!” I finally said, smacking myself on the forehead. “That was the bell telling us to leave. Sorry, we thought it was the bell telling us to . . . cower behind a pile of ore.”

  While the ruby stared impassively, the mage’s remaining eye regarded us like we were complete idiots. Which was actually what I was going for. He stepped aside and pointed to the door we’d just come in.

  “Report to the training room!” he said. “Return here at the next bell to continue work.”

  “Next bell. Right.” Maloch gave a short bow, and I followed suit. We scampered past the mage, back out into the hall. The mage followed us, watching carefully. When I took a cautious step to the right, he raised an eyebrow into a point so sharp I was afraid he’d scratch his forehead. I took a step to the left and the eyebrow lowered.

  “Come along, Tevrok,” I said, tugging at Maloch’s arm and leading him down the left passageway. “We’ll be late for training. In the training room. Where we train.”

  When we rounded the corner, out of the one-eyed mage’s sight, Maloch whirled around and sank his fist into my stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air.

  “What . . . was that . . . for?” I asked.

  “You called me Tevrok,” he said with a sneer.

  “Right,” I said. “I thought I was doing you a favor, giving you a false name. You wanted me to call you Maloch?”

  He pushed me up against the wall. “Tevrok is par-Goblin for sanguibeast excrement.”

  Oh, right. I kept forgetting he spoke par-Goblin.

  I coughed. “Er, sorry. Force of habit.”

  He grabbed me by the shoulder and pulled me down the corridor.

  In the end, I used my superior powers of deduction to locate the training hall. Basically, we followed the sounds of explosions and screams.

  The trail of thunderous mayhem led us to a massive room, several stor
ies high. Circular wooden platforms hovered at different levels over the stone floor. On each dais stood a trio of gray-robed apprentices, each brandishing a glowing spellsphere. They seemed to be taking turns casting spells at one another, with great streaks of energy flying across the room. Some succeeded, others failed. It was the failures that typically led to the explosions and screams that had guided us here.

  As we stood gawping, a pair of strong hands gripped us by the nape of our necks and yanked us back. A Satyran woman in mage robes, who looked like a younger and meaner version of Dylis, regarded us coolly.

  “Where is your third partner?” she asked.

  “Well,” I said, “you see, it’s like this. We were late. We’re not usually late, but it’s been quite a day. You wouldn’t even believe me if I tried to tell you—”

  The mage dragged us both across the room to where an apprentice sat on a bench, cowled head facing down.

  “I found you some partners,” the mage said with a roar.

  When the apprentice looked up, I found myself staring into the face of Callie Strom.

  Her eyes lit up with a mixture of happiness and confusion. Before she could say a word, I leaped forward and started shaking her hand.

  “Hi there! My name is Tyrius,” I said, eyes wide in a “please play along” sort of way, “and this is”—oh, zoc, I couldn’t think of anything better—“Tevrok.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” Maloch said, low enough so only I could hear.

  “Thank you, Madam Zaia,” Callie said to the dour mage.

  “Begin your drills,” Madam Zaia said. She waited until the three of us moved.

  “Over here,” Callie said confidently, leading us to a wooden platform nearby. She pulled a spellsphere from her robes, cleared her throat, and said, “Boshoren!”