The Fragment of Shadow (The Shattered Soul Book 2)

by Ben Hale

  He reached skyward and lightning crackled above Elenyr. She snatched a section of the destroyed staff and slashed across the band of lightning on her foot. It split in two, the energy scattering, and Elenyr morphed to ethereal.

  “No!” Serak roared.

  As the lightning bolt dropped toward her head, she fell into the earth, her eyes filled with the blinding light. Her waist disappeared, as did her torso, but the lightning came for her skull. She sucked in her breath and willed herself into the earth, her hair passing beneath the surface . . . and the lighting struck.

  It blasted the earth, the energy spreading in all directions. Just inches below the surface, the current arced around her, and filled her ethereal form. Her flesh sought to become corporeal but inside the earth she could not, so she endured the full agony of the blow. The last thing she heard was Serak’s furious bellow, and then darkness claimed her . . .

  Chapter 42: A Brother’s Home

  Lorica listened to Shadow depart, a small smile on her face. After Loralyn had died, she’d felt a shattering within. She never would have imagined the events that would follow, or the one she would call friend.

  She continued to watch Gendor until the sun set and he made his way into the cabin. Darkness fell around her, and she half expected Shadow to appear, but the stars turned in the heavens, and she knew he was gone.

  When the light went out in the cabin, she turned and left the former assassin behind, and returned to the campfire. The embers had gone cold, the fragments long since departed. After traveling with Shadow for so long, she found that she missed him.

  She rekindled the fire and slept. Rising with the dawn, she hurried to her previous vantage point, a rocky outcropping shaded by trees. From there she surveyed Gendor as he exited his farmhouse and went to work in the field.

  Leaning against a tree trunk, she regarded her foe. Mind had made clear his magic could be broken, and so she remained on watch, unwilling to let Gendor return to his former knowledge, and enmity.

  Part of her wanted him to do so, because it would mean she would be forced to kill him. But as the hours bled into days, and days into weeks, she found a measure of peace in watching the man’s honest labor.

  Each day Gendor exited and stepped to the barn, gathering tools for the field. Lorica expected him to trudge to the fields, but there was an eagerness to his step, and he tackled the soil with a passion.

  Elenyr’s previous caretaker had planted a crop, and Gendor began the harvest with a will. She expected him to hesitate, to pause as if he’d forgotten a past life, but he betrayed no hint of his former life, and even his eyes were bright and clear. She watched the change wrought upon him, and realized that he was not alone, that she too felt lighter.

  After a decade of conflict and blood, Lorica found her heart gradually easing, like a bow being unstrung. An autumn storm came and went, and she watched Gendor care for his animals, the touch of tenderness surprising.

  She departed only to replenish her stock of food, and hastened her return, worried that she’d find him gone. But each time she arrived, he was still there, in the field with his crops. After her fourth return, she realized it was time to depart.

  A month after the battle at Mistkeep, she left Gendor behind and returned to her campfire for the final time. As she stared into the flames, her thoughts turned to what she was avoiding, a weaver hall in Herosian.

  “Where are your wings?”

  She lurched to her feet and spun, to find two figures standing in the shadows. The voice was female, and both were shorter. Lorica lowered her sword when she recognized the voice and shook her head in disbelief.

  “Sentara?”

  The aged woman stepped into the firelight with Rune at her side and smiled. “It’s good to see you too.”

  Lorica sheathed her sword and embraced the woman. “I thought you were dead.”

  “It takes more than a fall to kill me,” Sentara said, brushing her white hair out of her face. “Besides, I couldn’t die before I heard of Gendor’s fate.”

  “Tales are rampant that Mistkeep has been destroyed by the Angel of Death,” Rune said, taking a seat by the fire. “They say you were among the dead.”

  “Just my wings,” Lorica said, resuming her seat before looking to Sentara with hope. “Could you make a replacement?”

  “Sadly, I cannot,” Sentara said. “But I suspect you will not need them.” She flashed a cryptic smile.

  “How did you find me here?” Lorica asked.

  “Sentara’s friend can find anyone,” Rune said with a laugh.

  Sentara touched the pouch at her side, the one containing the orb she spoke to, but did not withdraw the object. Then she leaned back against a fallen log, her smile fading as she regarded Lorica.

  “What can you tell me of Elenyr?”

  “The Hauntress?” Lorica asked. “I saw her when my guild was destroyed in Herosian, but not since.”

  “Yet you traveled with Shadow.”

  Lorica raised an eyebrow. “How did you know?”

  “She knows much,” Sentara said, motioning to the pouch containing the orb. “But I wish to know of Elenyr. How fares the battle with the krey?”

  Lorica flashed a toothy smile. “Only one remains.”

  Rune grunted in irritation. “I wish I could have been there.”

  “You are an accomplished warrior,” Sentara said absently. “But still young.”

  “You always say that,” Rune said.

  “Don’t rush into battle,” Lorica said. “It carries a cost you cannot fathom.”

  Sentara looked about as if just realizing Lorica was alone. “Loralyn did not survive?”

  “Gendor killed her,” Lorica said.

  “Yet he still lives?” Sentara asked, shocked.

  “The fragment of Mind stripped him of his assassin memories,” she replied. “Made him think he was a farmer . . . are you well?”

  Sentara’s features had darkened, her eyes gaining a frightening rage. Lorica reached out to her but Sentara came to her feet and stood rigid, her hands clenching and unclenching. Lorica cast a look to Rune, but the girl, too, seemed mystified.

  “You let him shatter a mind?” Sentara ground the words out.

  “I didn’t see the harm—”

  Sentara stabbed a finger at Lorica. “You have no idea the damage such magic can cause.”

  “You’ve seen it before,” Lorica guessed, rising.

  “Rune,” Sentara said. “Come, we have an assassin to watch.”

  Rune cast Lorica an apologetic look, and then the girl followed Sentara into the shadows. Lorica shook her head in disbelief, confused at the sudden turn in Sentara’s behavior. Just as the weapons master exited the firelight, Lorica called out to her.

  “Wait,” she said. “Who did he hurt?”

  Sentara regarded her from the darkness, the firelight flickering across her face. “Me,” she said.

  “But what happened—”

  “Don’t you have a task to get to?” Sentara asked. “One you’ve been avoiding?”

  She turned and left, and Lorica could have sworn the pouch at her side was glowing bright red. Then the woman and her charge were gone, leaving Lorica to her questions. She considered following Sentara and Rune but knew that Sentara would not appreciate the intrusion.

  Taking solace in the fact that the pair would be watching Gendor, Lorica tried not to consider the prospect of what Sentara had implied. She reclined to sleep near the fire and lapsed to slumber.

  She woke with the dawn, her thoughts turning ahead. Rising, she kicked dirt onto the coals and turned away from the ring of stones. Pondering the exchange with Sentara, she headed north, to Herosian.

  Although it was Sentara’s past that dominated her doubts, she could no longer avoid what lay ahead. She’d been hunting Gendor for so long that she hadn’t given thought to the future, or the oath she had made with her sister.

  She’d pursued killers and beasts, targets of fearsome power, but never
had she felt such fear, the emotion slowing her steps and accelerating her heart. She reached Herosian before dawn and passed through the gates unchallenged.

  The bustle of street urchins and travelers, the scent of bread and roast eggs, washed over her, unnoticed. As if sensing the pall over her, none approached. Her clothes were still rent from the battle at Mistkeep, but her wounds were healed. Children veered away from her, looking up in silent awe before scurrying away. They did not know she was an assassin, or the guildmaster of an empty guild. But they knew to fear.

  She passed through the circles of Herosian and took the road north and west, towards the weaver hall on the small hill. Her footsteps further slowed as she imagined what lay ahead, of seeing Irenae, of speaking to Zenif’s son. Would she be angry? Would she scream profanities and slam the door?

  Lorica’s heart tightened in her chest, a lump of steel that struggled to beat. She passed homes and factories, the workers already set to their labors churning out cloth and refining wheat to flour. The sun crested the city wall, bathing the streets in light and shadows. She wished one of them contained her friend.

  Lorica rounded a corner by the warehouse and took the final steps to the gate, to the rickety barrier that had prevented her entry for a decade. It came to her waist, just a few boards fastened to a beam with rusted nails, the wood warped and grey.

  Like so many times before, she came to a halt, her eyes lifting to the door. She’d never visited during the day, afraid she would be recognized. The structure looked different, more alive.

  Although worn, the exterior wall showed signs of repair, and new wood had been installed on the eaves. The coloring indicated it was a few years old, and she wondered how she’d never noticed.

  A handful of discarded toys littered the patch of grass in front of the house, while the weaver hall adjacent to the home smelled of cloth and linen. Sunrise filled the building with light, an invitation, a beckoning.

  Lorica reached for the gate, a chill sweeping through her flesh, her hand trembling. Her fingers settled on the wood. The rough texture was exactly as she’d imagined, but she’d always seen a second hand on the gate.

  Her features fell, emotion clogging her throat, and the loss of Loralyn was as bitter as the moment she’d died. But another emotion was also present, a soft relief, a yearning to see Zenif’s child. And she could almost imagine the second hand resting on the wood beside her own.

  Drawing a stuttering breath, she eased the gate open, the hinges releasing a creak. The barrier broken, she stepped through, and her boot settled onto the path, the gravel crunching. Tears filled her eyes, and she took another step, and another. Her slow stride carried her to the door, and she lifted her hand to the knocker.

  The heavy metal struck the door, the sound reverberating into the interior. The hum of a weaving machine came to a stop, and then footfalls approached the floor. Lorica nearly bolted, the urge to run so powerful and sudden that she took half a step toward the street. Then the door opened and Lorica found herself facing Irenae.

  Lorica saw the same door but ten years in the past—Lorica and Loralyn standing in the doorway, their uniforms still dirty from the road, both in silence as Zenif’s wife crumpled on the threshold. The young child clung to her mother as she wept, unaware that his father would never return.

  Lorica struggled to speak as Irenae blinked in shock. She froze, the cloth in her hands tumbling to the floor. A young voice called out in curiosity, but she failed to respond, and Lorica struggled to speak.

  “Irenae . . .”

  Lorica’s voice abandoned her, and her throat closed up. Tears blossomed in Irenae’s eyes and she shook her head. Lorica thought it was anger that twisted her features, but abruptly Irenae released a laugh.

  “What took you so long?”

  The woman closed the gap in a rush, engulfing her in a crushing embrace. Lorica clung to the woman, and tears wet her cheeks, leaking from her eyes despite her effort to stop them. She smelled the dust and linen on the woman, mixed with a faint scent of cinnamon and apples, the smells of a mother.

  “I’m sorry,” Lorica whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  Irenae’s grip tightened. “You didn’t kill Zenif.”

  “The one who did has paid for his crime.”

  Irenae finally retreated and wiped at the tears wetting her cheeks. “I never cared about that.”

  “We did,” she said.

  Irenae cast about. “Where’s Loralyn?”

  Lorica shook her head.

  Irenae’s smile faded and she motioned Lorica inside. “Come in. It’s past time we shared a meal.”

  Lorica crossed the threshold, shivering but not from a chill. She’d been to war for a decade, and stepping into Zenif’s home was the first time since his death that she felt such an emotion. Despite the time, it was easy to recognize.

  She was home.

  Chapter 43: Shadow’s Gift

  “Off to bed.”

  The boy groaned, and Lorica looked to the window in surprise. The entire day had passed, and the light orbs had grown dim. Irenae ignored the boy’s protests and ushered him upstairs, and Lorica surveyed the table.

  A day with Irenae had softened scars not of the flesh, and she only wished Loralyn had been present. Irenae was not the best of cooks, but her food was warm and comforting, the bread seeming to fill the room with heart.

  Lorica’s gaze swept the room, the tapestry on the wall, woven in Zenif’s hand, the simple cabinets, the handmade table. The dishes were few and old, but well cared for, as was the vase on the counter, the one containing flowers picked by the boy.

  Lorica withdrew a coin purse and slipped it between the books on a small shelf near the stairs. All had been well read, the pages yellowed with age, the bindings frayed. She saw the stains of fingers and imagined Irenae reading to the child.

  Irenae smiled as she descended the stairs. “The Ballad of Ero and Skorn,” she said. “One of his favorites.”

  “I’ve never read it,” Lorica said.

  “You should,” she said, and set to clearing the table.

  “He is wonderful,” Lorica said, picking up a plate.

  “He is his father’s son,” she said, “and has his father’s gift with thread.”

  “Then Lumineia is fortunate.”

  They’d spent the day talking about the weaver hall, its position among the other halls, and tales of the past decade. Zenif had left a legacy in the guild, one of quality that his family had managed to maintain, despite the competition.

  Zenif’s son had asked repeatedly about Lorica’s past. Evading the truth, she’d claimed being contracted to Griffin’s northern army. Tales of Bartoth’s attacks on caravans were rampant, and Lorica entertained the boy with stories of the villainous rock troll.

  “I thank you for not talking of your exploits with my son present,” Irenae said.

  “I doubt Zenif would have liked his son following my example.”

  “Did you kill many in your quest for Zenif’s killer?” she asked.

  The question was quiet, almost afraid, and Lorica shook her head. “That is not the question that matters. What matters is, have I killed anyone that did not merit death?”

  Irenae remained silent, and then sighed. “It is hard for me to understand your chosen life.”

  Lorica thought of Shadow, of how he was, of what he did. He was a fragment born to magic, and many current mages would regard him as an abomination. Yet he’d probably saved Irenae’s life, or the lives of their ancestors. He would not think of himself as an abomination.

  She drew her sword and set it on the table. The steel clunked onto the wood, the sound heavy, as if the blade knew the history of blood it carried, the mantle it shouldered. The weapon was not the oathsword, which she’d hidden near the old guildhall on one of her trips away from Gendor. The blade was her old sword, the one that had been hers upon becoming an assassin, and the hilt was as familiar as her own flesh.

  “This is my loom,” she
said softly.

  “My loom does not kill,” Irenae replied.

  “I did not choose my talents,” Lorica said. “But I can choose my fate. The one who killed Zenif was like me, gifted with a sword, willing to take a life that needed taking. But he wielded his talents for a darker purpose, just as you could, just as any could.”

  Lorica swept a hand to the bookshelf. “A historian could use his talent to inspire hatred and fear, while a weaver might create clothing and decorations that instill jealousy and anger. It is not what we possess that defines us, but how we choose to wield the blade we have been given.”

  Irenae regarded her with curiosity, her features warm, like a mother, or a sister. All at once Lorica realized the woman saw her as such, and worried for Lorica as if they were blood. They may have been joined by marriage, but Irenae saw her as kindred.

  “Do you not feel pain when you take a life?”

  “One of my targets was an elven noblewoman that beat her children,” Lorica said, recalling the kill. “She stole from the poor and whipped a human youth because he had the audacity of looking her in the eye. He died, and the family sought recompense, but the crime was overlooked because of her status. Loralyn gave the contract to me, and I felt pride upon its completion.”

  “Surely the family could not afford your guild.”

  “The contract was issued by the queen of the elves,” Lorica said.

  Lorica hadn’t known that part until recently, when she’d browsed the assassin archives while watching Gendor. She’d learned a great deal in her time of observation, including the identity of the patron.

  “Justice was bound,” Lorica said. “So the queen used us.”

  “You speak with eloquence,” Irenae said. “And I believe I understand. I assume this means you will continue in the guild?”

  Irenae’s back was to Lorica, her tone light, but Lorica heard the note of worry that went beyond curiosity. She’d obviously wanted to ask all day, but her son had bombarded Lorica with questions, preventing the question from being voiced.