by Ben Hale
Shadow retreated, twisting and turning, avoiding the lethal blade by a hairsbreadth. He’d trained for thousands of years, yet in her found an equal. Of course, he’d skipped much of his training, especially in his early years, and he found a touch of regret.
“I’ll cut that arrogant smile from your face,” she growled.
“Forgive me,” Shadow said, weaving into a collection of barrels before leaping above them. “My smile was one of chagrin, for I realize now how much Elenyr was right. I should have trained with more diligence.”
“Your lie will not make me spare you.” She bounded after him, and the two fought above the barrels.
“It will if you are wise,” Shadow said. “Because you face an enemy you do not understand.”
“Gendor?” she spat. “I’ve tracked him for a decade, yet you presume to know him better than I?”
“I know not the man,” he said. “But I hunt who he serves.”
“I do not believe you.”
The menace had returned to her voice, and she slashed a rope binding several barrels. They collapsed and rolled across the floor, taking Shadow with them. He managed to keep his feet and cast a shadow whip that he sent into the rafters. A tug sent him soaring out of sight. She launched herself after him, her wings allowing her to gain height, joining him in the beams.
“Your guild is gone,” Shadow said. “Your sister is dead, and you have no ally to speak of. To strike directly would be foolish.”
“And you’re going to help me?”
“No,” he said, and then smiled. “You’re going to help me.”
A hint of amusement appeared in her gaze, but she quashed it with a scowl, and leapt eight feet, rebounding off a beam and catching another with her free hand, allowing her to swing around Shadow, forcing him closer to the wall.
Shadow brought his feet together and dropped, eluding her flashing blade. He flared his wings and alighted on a stack of barrels before leaping free. The light in the warehouse was dim but not dark, and he glided through the gloom to the floor. She followed, falling faster than he, and leaned into a strike that would plunge her sword through his back—but the weapon passed through his wings, cutting empty air.
From within a gap in the barrels behind her, Shadow flitted away, evading her gaze as she banked and landed hard, searching for where he’d escaped. Shadow phased to his elemental form and glided along the walls, circling.
“If the circumstances were different, I would not interrupt your quest for vengeance,” he called, causing her to spin. “Or your mourning.”
“You know nothing of mourning,” she growled, her tone harsh.
“True,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”
She spun, her blade pointed at him. His daggers sheathed, Shadow stood in the open, his arms wide, vulnerable. He waited for her to strike but she did not, and Shadow accepted the tiny opening.
“You know the Bloodsworn are dangerous,” he said. “But they have connections to a greater threat, the Order of the Ancients. Both link to the Ravens in Keese.”
“All I want is Gendor.”
“Then join me,” Shadow said. “We can hunt together.”
She stared at him, and he wondered if she would try to kill him again. The woman was truly lethal, a fact he found appealing. He recognized that she might kill him. Perhaps not here, perhaps not today, but she could claim his life.
“One condition,” she said.
“I usually ignore rules,” Shadow said.
She growled. “Speak Zenif’s name again, and I will kill you.”
“Only if you tell me who he was.”
She released an explosive breath. “You never quit, do you.”
“It’s one of my best qualities.”
She glared at him, and then looked away. When she looked back there was such heat that he saw the truth. He was her family, maybe a husband—no—a brother or a father. He’d been killed and she felt the pain, a pain she had not shared with anyone except Loralyn.
“Speak on this again and I kill you,” she repeated.
“I’ll meet you outside the western gate, after the storm.” He inclined his head and then retreated into the darkness, his body joining the shadows he owned.
Chapter 11: Requiem
“I’ll take the first watch,” Elenyr said.
Fire yawned. “Are you certain?”
“I don’t sleep much anyway,” Elenyr said. “Not anymore.”
Fire nodded and absently cast the wolf of fire that set to prowling. Then he reclined onto his bedroll and was asleep in seconds. Mind regarded Elenyr with a curious expression, but she kept her expression neutral, unwilling to let him see her thoughts.
“Do you think Lorica capable of rebuilding the guild?” Mind asked.
It was just one day since the assassin battle, and the trio were camped a day’s ride north of Herosian. As they left the city, Elenyr had thought often of what they had witnessed, and wondered about the sole survivor.
“She is strong,” Elenyr said. “But revenge sought in grief often ends in ruin.”
Mind inclined his head in agreement, and for a while there was silence. Elenyr continued to watch the fire, her thoughts shifting to the foe they faced. Elenyr and the fragments had fought many threats, but this was different. A storm was coming, and she feared for her fragment sons.
But how to protect them? She wanted to shield them, but she’d spent lifetimes teaching them to stand and fight, to defend those that needed aid. They would not stand idle against such an enemy—nor did she want them to. But she still yearned to protect them. She only had one plan, and she could only hope it would succeed.
“I’m going to take a walk,” Elenyr said.
Mind regarded her from across the fire. “You’ve departed before. Where do you go?”
“I’ll be back by morning,” Elenyr said.
She rose and strode away from the fire, allowing the night to swallow her frame. The moment she was out of sight, she morphed to ethereal and accelerated, worry compelling her to action.
Wind and brush, stone and grass, all passed through her ethereal body, which moved more by will than muscle. Miles passed as she drove herself faster and faster, streaking across the dark countryside on her way south.
The walls of Herosian rose up in the distance, approaching at shocking speed. Elenyr didn’t slow, and sped into them, passing through the stone to enter the street beyond. She slowed and turned west, along the outer wall of the city, breathing hard from the run.
The midnight hour had come and gone, and the streets were devoid of life, with only a handful of drunken wastrels or soldiers ambling about. Elenyr made her way through the streets, avoiding contact with all.
In the third circle of Herosian, she slowed and came to a halt, her eyes lifting to the spherical structure. Unique in all of Lumineia, the building was perfectly round, its base partially sunk into the earth. Fashioned of purple, clouded glass, the shop had taken a fortune to build, a fraction of the owners’ earnings each year.
Requiem
The name hovered in shining letters above the glass door, a name that linked to her time as an oracle, although few knew of the requiem trees built during the Age of Oracles. They’d been all but destroyed in the Mage Wars.
Elenyr strode to the door and passed within, her ethereal body moving through the door to enter the room beyond. The giant space contained curved walls all the way to the ceiling, filled to the brim with small glass orbs. Pedestals dotted the center of the room, where other orbs rested, the memories of their long dead owners floating in the glass.
Memory mages were uncommon, making their talent highly valued. The wealthy paid to have their memories placed into a sphere of glass, allowing them to see and witness moments of note from their past. Cheaper memory orbs were no more than a single image frozen in time, while expensive orbs revealed a full memory, including sound.
The owner of Requiem came from a long line of memory mages, but what ma
de the orbs unique was their second talent of sound magic. With both magics, they were able to capture moments with such exactness that many were brought to tears.
A circular desk sat in the center of the floor, and Elenyr stepped to it, ringing the bell on the counter. A faint groan sounded from below, and then stairs appeared, recessing into the floor in the center of the desk, revealing a spiral staircase to the living quarters of the owner.
An older man trudged up the steps. Dressed in a nightgown and soft shoes, he brushed his white hair back against his head, yawning as he reached the desk. He rubbed his face, his grey eyes rising to regard Elenyr.
“Moren,” Elenyr said, “it’s good to see you. How is your daughter?”
“Close to surpassing my skill,” he said. “Do you know what time it is?”
“My apologies,” Elenyr said. “But I have a task for you.”
“You always do.”
The man sighed and retrieved a decanter from beneath the desk. Filling a glass with ale, he took a swig and yawned again. Then he rubbed his eyes and leaned onto the desk, swirling the liquid in his glass.
“One rule,” he said, his tone of regret. “That’s what my father said when I took over. Always serve the Hauntress with exactness. I didn’t realize it meant you’d be arriving at all hours of the night.”
“My business cannot be conducted in front of others.”
The man took another sip and shrugged. “I have many clients with such needs, but you are the only one for whom my father required an oath. From what I understand, my grandfather, his father, and who knows how many generations beyond, were all required to make the same oath. What did you do that made my entire lineage beholden?”
“Are my tasks onerous to you?” Elenyr asked, her lips twitching with amusement.
“Of course not.” The man swept his hand to the room. “Making memory orbs is what I do. But why us? Why use my family?”
Elenyr thought of the fragment of Mind, of his ability to reach into another’s mind and extract memories. To keep a secret from someone with such magic was nigh impossible, unless she used another powerful memory mage.
“Because you are the best at guarding secrets,” she said.
The man shook his head, obviously not satisfied with the answer. “Another memory?”
“Indeed,” Elenyr said.
Elenyr reached to her throat and removed the pendent she always carried. At the end of the silver chain hung a flat section of glass, cut to resemble a large diamond. It was a simple keepsake, not expensive, yet it contained more value than any treasure.
Elenyr passed the pendent to the man and he examined it critically, a flicker of purple appearing in his eyes. He yawned again and placed it on a small pedestal on the counter, positioning it so it pointed to her.
“The glass is nearly full,” he said. “If you wish to record much more you’ll have to get a second one.”
“Does the quality of the pendent not permit more memories to be imbued in the glass?”
“Of course,” he replied. “And this is of the highest craftsmanship, the glass as pure as anything I’ve ever seen. But even this has limits.”
“I suspect the time of its use will soon be at hand,” she said.
The man inclined his head. “You know what to do. Clear your mind of anything except the memory you wish to imbue. Breathe it in, feel it, hear it, and then lower your mental barrier enough that I can retrieve it.”
“You cannot breach my mental shields yet?”
He chuckled at her amused tone. “I suspect you guard your thoughts as a matter of routine, to keep secrets from one with magic that matches mine.”
“Perhaps.” Elenyr allowed a small smile.
She cleared her thoughts and recalled the battle in the Assassin’s Guild. Time was limited, so she recalled a moment when she’d looked to Mind and Fire, and saw the two battling side by side, both protecting each other.
Then she recalled the moment the assassin had cradled her fallen sister, the pain, the anguish written on her features, and Fire and Mind standing over her. Fire looked stricken, while Mind’s features were inscrutable.
The man reached up and touched her temple. Purple light curled around his finger, swirling down his hand. He withdrew his hand and touched the pendent, leaving a stream of purple light between her and the necklace.
The memory seeped from her, coalescing inside the glass, showing a flurry of images, of blades and fire, and two fragments fighting as one. Elenyr relived the moment until its end, and then closed her mind again. The memory thread faded, and the man sealed the magic into the glass, the images disappearing.
Throughout the process he did not look at the memory or allow it to enter his own thoughts. His discretion was part of what made him so expensive. When finished, he held the pendent aloft and returned it to her hand.
“You have my gratitude,” Elenyr said.
She donned the necklace, and then tucked it into the folds of her tunic, out of sight. Moren’s ancestor had cast a charm to hide the object from Mind’s notice, but she didn’t take any chances. If Mind didn’t know it existed, he could not attempt to break the barrier.
“Why do you do want to remember this moment?” he asked, motioning to the pendant.
“Do you ask all your customers the same question?”
“Actually I do,” Moren replied, smiling faintly.
“And what do they say?”
“That they do not wish to forget,” he said.
“You know as well as I,” Elenyr said. “Memories shape our identity, and they protect us from falling to our weaknesses. If we want to conquer ourselves, we must simply remember.”
“I might use that on my door.” Moren nodded his approval.
“Say hello to your daughter,” Elenyr said.
He yawned. “I will.”
Elenyr withdrew a pouch of coin and dropped it on the counter. Then she turned and strode to the door. The clink of coin sounded and Moren chuckled, calling out as Elenyr reached the exit.
“You know you don’t have to pay,” he said.
“It’s for your daughter,” Elenyr said. “Tell her to buy a dress for the fall festival.”
He smiled and hefted the coin pouch. “I’m sure she will be grateful.”
Elenyr inclined her head and then turned ethereal before passing through the door. In the street, she turned north, returning the way she had come. The streets were still empty, with only a handful of guards patrolling.
Foregoing the closed gates, she went straight to the wall and passed through it before accelerating across the farms and fields. The stars had turned during her foray into the city, and she saw that sunrise was imminent. Feeling the need to return, she flew across the countryside until she spotted the pinprick of light next to the road. Turning to it, she slowed and phased back to flesh.
Gasping from the sprint, she took a moment to calm her breathing. Then she approached the fire. The sentry of fire padded toward her, and she patted his head before entering the pool of light, claiming her previous seat by the diminished fire. Mind stirred and sat up.
“A long walk.”
“Lots to think about,” Elenyr said.
“Anything you wish to share?” Mind asked.
“In time.”
His features tightened. “Why do you keep secrets from us?”
“Do you remember the first time Draeken shattered?”
“It is not a memory I can forget.”
“You were not the only one present,” she said. “And your shattering left a scar on me as well.”
“What does this have to do with your secrets?”
Elenyr leaned against the log. “A father does not burden a child with the knowledge of an impending war, nor does he share his worry over the yield from his crops. He does not speak of his fear regarding a bandit attack, or the dread when his wife falls ill. All this he retains, so the child may know the joy of his young life.”
Mind bristled. “I am n
ot a child.”
“Are you certain?”
Anger tightened his features, and the grass nearby began to bend. The ground trembled, making the logs in the fire spit sparks. Elenyr watched Mind regain control of the magic she knew he feared, and when the ground settled, she sighed.
“You are no child,” she murmured. “But to be whole you must accept the parts of you that you fear the most.”
Mind would not meet her gaze, and she regretted provoking him. Mind rarely succumbed to anger, but when he did, the very earth trembled. It was a magic beyond his reach, one even Elenyr did not understand. But she knew that one day it would make him the most powerful.
“Will you ever trust me?” Mind asked.
Elenyr smiled. “Will you ever trust yourself?”
She held his gaze, knowing that he kept his greatest fears to himself. He was the eldest fragment, the one gifted with power and intelligence. He had nothing to fear, except what lurked within his own flesh.
Mind reclined on his bedroll and rolled away, and Elenyr lay on her own blanket. She watched the stars gradually lighten with the approach of dawn, wondering if she could have prepared more.
And hoping it would be enough.
Chapter 12: Shadow’s Truth
After Shadow’s departure, Lorica wrestled with the choice to join him, and throughout the storm she failed to make a decision. But when the time came, she found herself at the appointed place—to find him absent.
She waited, her annoyance rising. Travelers glanced at her as they exited the city. The minutes ticked by, and just as she was considering leaving, he appeared through the city gates astride his own mount. He yawned and smiled, as if he’d expected her to be there.
“Overslept,” he said, his tone unapologetic. “Ready for revenge?”
“Are you always this irritating?”
“Always.”
She grunted in annoyance and cast a look back at the city, already regretting her choice. Then she reluctantly flicked the reins and joined Shadow. She kept her distance, and sat back in her saddle, watching her strange companion. The man was an enigma and inspired an ocean of fury. He’d watched her grieve and come closer than anyone else in figuring out her truth.