Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2)

by Harper Alexander

  A flutter of disquiet went through him at her grave account, but he still wasn’t quite sure what all this cryptic nonsense was about. “My lady–”

  “The beasts did not grow restless and escape Ophelious’ control on their own. I encouraged it. Used them as scapegoats, so I might disperse players onto the board without facing blame. And I was so intent…so desperate…to yield results before I was found out…that I dug my claws into Shangar’s mind and overwhelmed him with the instinct to hunt until it was all he knew. He became a hunting machine. And I…” Her finger had stopped circling the rim of her glass, settling around its girth to tip it toward her where she could stare down into its contents once again. Abruptly, she straightened it, the bottom cracking against the table. “Well, let’s just say the ‘exquisite’ mind you so admire has its limits. If I stay too long in the mind of another, I lose track of who’s who. We begin to meld.”

  Well, that was disturbing. Mosscrow hoped his hood hid the fact that he felt himself pale, lest the noblewoman conclude it had been a bad idea to share the truth with him.

  She didn’t seem to notice. “At the risk of finding myself trapped in the mind of a gargoyle for the rest of time, I withdrew for small increments. And during one of these…he hurt someone. A girl.” Her gaze lifted slowly from her untouched shot, and Crow was surprised to find that her dark eyes, usually so austere, glittered with tears. “He hurt her, and I…I could not go back in to stop him.”

  A trickle of horror oozed through the Lord Advisor’s veins. Oh, he thought. That certainly explained things. He cleared his throat, wrestling with the revelation. He’d come in here determined to lend support during whatever crisis ailed her, but now…now he wasn’t so sure he shouldn’t pound out a lecture on abuse of power and proclaim her a disgrace and demand she withdraw from the Order of Shadowhunters and leave court at once.

  Reaching across the table, he took the glass from Lady Verrikose and downed it himself. Plunking it back onto the table, he poured her another, suddenly all too willing to share the bottle between them. “This girl…” he began, realizing he at least needed to know more before he solidified his stance. “Is she…?”

  “She is fine. Returned to her family. Rescued by the Shadowmaster at the same time that he caught and delivered the beast back to our very own courtyard. We fail once again, and that infuriating, insolent reprobate gets to play himself off as the hero. Even if Despiris had not used my lapse of judgment to sweep in and forbid me from meddling any further, I do believe I’ve had quite enough of this convoluted return-on-investment. They can and will twist any line we cast out so that it catches on some unforeseen bank and runs us aground. If we sweep the rug out from underneath them, they’ll escape through a trap door that was hidden beneath the rug. If we cut them off at the knees, they’ll dish-cover…discover…”

  Was she slurring?

  “…a capacity to slip into smaller spaces the rest of us can’t follow. It is not fair, Lord Mosscrow.” Her voice cracked, growing husky and strained. “It is not fair for our blood, sweat, and tears to not only amount to nothing, but to be harnessed for their gain. I grow weary of our valiant efforts to thwart the darkness seeming to only further its agenda. It is as though the fight for good fuels evil. I’m beginning to think…” For a moment it seemed she lost track of what it was she was beginning to think, then she found it again. “…that if we did ever secure the Mashter of the …Master of the Shadows in our dungeon, it would prove to have been his plan all along – to get close to us, right under our feet, that he might bring down the very palace…all around us.” Slouching in her seat, she rested her elbows on the table, evidence of the ‘weariness’ she spoke of. Or how much she’d had to drink.

  Well, that does it. While Mosscrow could certainly support her reservations, given the near-disaster she had caused, now she was just plain wallowing, outright self-destructing. His brows smashed together. “Snap out of it, my lady. You said it yourself – you had a lapse of judgment. But that’s all it was. A lapse of judgment. It happens to the best of us. The gods know the king himself has had his share throughout this operation. No one was hurt, not truly, and now you know better. So drink up, buck up, and pull yourself together. Wallowing does not become you. Catching shadows does. And if it turns out their plan was to infiltrate the palace and bring it down around us all along…we will burn it down ourselves before they can.”

  Surprise and bemusement flickered across her face at his treasonous declaration. But something about the way he’d dared to speak to her seemed to earn her respect, silencing any further blubbering. With a wry expression, she pushed the full glass back across the table for him, groping for the bottle as her own means to partake. She raised it toward him. “To burning down the palashe,” she toasted, growing evidently more delirious by the second. When had her hair begun to slip from its knot to form a messy frame around her face? When had her bright pink sleeve slipped from her shoulder, draping in a provocative display that Crow took pains not to ogle?

  It was so easy, above all else, to become distracted by talk of the Shadowmaster. With a flush of excitement, he clinked his glass against the bottle, and they both drank.

  Swaying in her seat, Lady Verrikose barely had the presence of mind to fumble the bottle from her lips back onto the tabletop before she tipped forward, passing out in a drunken heap of fuchsia.

  Lord Mosscrow blinked once in surprise, then sighed. Tomorrow, then. We will reconvene and resurrect our plans to catch a shadow tomorrow.

  21

  Truce or Tryst

  “Be one with the darkness. You are Shadhi,” Clevwrith had said to Despiris – but, by the gods, if she didn’t look good as a lady.

  *

  Unable to curb the merriment at a mere, single celebration, Isavor declared the entire month a month for revelry. And so the balls continued.

  By the third event, Po finally lost sight of his melancholy, determined up until then not to enjoy himself too much, but unable to resist the infectious, over-the-top joy that swelled like an ocean current around him. During breaks in the dancing, he took to performing his acrobatic routines across the ballroom floor, earning a dazzled response of oos and ahhs and enthusiastic applause. The musicians quickly caught on and provided little dillies for him to perform to, punctuating his tricks with comical trills and strums.

  A weight lifted from Despiris’s shoulders seeing him eat up the spotlight. It would seem his spirits were on the rise at last.

  My work here is done, she thought, and allowed herself to leave Po alone to amuse the crowd, slipping away through a pair of open double-doors to one of the balconies overlooking the gardens. She’d been cooped up for too long, the itch to return to the free air overwhelming now that the quarantine order was lifted. She wasn’t made to stew about inside, her only means of stretching her legs the long walks through stifling, echoey palace halls. She was going stir-crazy, the need to expand her horizons a desperate ache growing within, like a child too long in the womb. She thought it just might burst through the constricting laces of her corset if she didn’t soon appease it.

  She practically crested the balcony railing like a wave, bracing her crimson gloves on the balustrade and leaning as far as she dared, breathing in the crisp winter air that carried with it just a hint of cypress and early jasmine blossoms.

  Was spring really just around the corner? She’d lost track of time during isolation.

  For a moment, the thought jarred her – that months could pass without hardly realizing it. Months spent in this new place, no longer so new. Months spent away from the man she’d thought would forever be her one constant in life. Months growing distant, different.

  How long would this go on? How many seasons would she spend chasing after the Master of the Shadows?

  Would there come a time when it was enough? If, season after season, he continued to slip through her fingers, always one infuriating, inevitable step ahead, would she stubbornly keep at it, letting it go on for
years? An epic, fast-paced chess match for the rest of their lives?

  She pictured it, suddenly – the two of them old and gray, still hobbling after one another through the streets, teasing each other about arthritis and gout, wearing back braces like armor and wielding snazzy canes-that-doubled-as-weapons.

  It won’t come to that, she promised herself, although the image brought with it some amusement. Because, for all her creeping doubts, she was just as cocky, swinging all too easily back to a place where she put faith in his own words: “There is nothing you can’t do. Easily.” She believed in her heart that it was true, and therefore that she had what it took to be his undoing.

  It wasn’t just cockiness, though, she realized, or faith in his own assessment of her. It was more profound than that. It was that, for all Clevwrith’s perfection, she had a suspicion he had peaked. And she…she was evolving. Becoming more.

  And so it stood to reason that, if she believed they were equals, then at her current trajectory she was slated to rise above his greatness.

  *

  Ever since his appearance at the ball, the Master of the Shadows had taken to keeping a certain souvenir with him at all times. If anyone had caught and searched him, they would be interested to discover that aside from a truly impressive collection of hidden knives, peculiar tools, and dark disguises, he carried a delicate, intriguing strip of torn lace. A baffling token, to be sure, but he did so like to keep people guessing.

  And he thought he just might run with the theme, and add a few new specimens to his collection.

  Tonight, it appeared he would be adding red alongside the green.

  From the shadows of the garden, Clevwrith grinned up at the radiant image that was Des, all decked out in crimson. If she had to forsake the sleek, seductive blacks that had been her signature under his wing, red was a lovely alternative. Still just as sinful, but with a striking, vivacious streak that suited her.

  I wouldn’t mind unraveling the whole thing for my collection, Clevwrith thought darkly, shamelessly admiring her. Convicted by a small amount of decency, however, he decided he ought to announce himself.

  Retrieving a signature black rose from inside his cloak, he drew his arm back and launched it from the shadows to land on the balustrade beside her. Instantly capturing her attention, it served as the bait it was intended to be. Retrieving it delicately between two crimson digits, she drew it off the railing for inspection, and then her gaze cut to the shadows.

  Grin widening, Clevwrith waited for her to follow the lead. His delight only tripled when, as if she’d been eagerly awaiting the opportunity, Despiris parted her skirt by way of an obviously custom, thigh-high slit that made it hardly an inconvenience to clamber over the railing and scale the ivy-lush trellis down to his level. Clearly, she’d learned from last time, and had had the palace seamstress retrofit her new gown for chasing after uninvited guests, just in case.

  Having tucked the rose into her bodice for the climb, Despiris adjusted its thorny stem amongst her cleavage as she crossed the lawn toward him. But Clevwrith could not keep his eyes from the snatches of her muscled, bare thigh pushing through her dress slit with each stride.

  Whether or not he thought she belonged here, she certainly looked good in the role.

  The chilly winter night was suddenly warmer than it should be. Clevwrith consciously directed his thoughts away from that very clever distraction she had fashioned, and focused on her face. As she approached, he pushed away from the column he’d tucked himself against, which served as a pedestal for a massive potted plant. Tauntingly, he matched her steps and backed toward the entrance to the hedge maze at his flank, causing her to slow her pace and eventually trail to a halt lest she lose him to the labyrinth.

  Impatiently, she crossed her arms beneath the low cut of her tightly-cinched bodice, regarding him saucily across the lawn.

  “I could run and be gone just like that,” Clevwrith mused, then presented an alternative, “or we could call a momentary truce and greet each other properly. It seems it is in the spirit of the occasion to pause the furor that pits us against one another and acknowledge instead the universal gift of life and collective joys of humanity, and celebrate the fact that we are both still standing here, breathing, in the wake of a dastardly plague.”

  Considering his proposition, Despiris relented, but not without an evident spark of irritation. “Fine. You have three minutes. A brief grace period in the spirit of the occasion, before I give chase.”

  Cautiously, but with brazen delight, Clevwrith edged forward, away from his escape route and right up to the space his gorgeous nemesis occupied. He took her hand in his, drawing it up to his lips, never taking his eyes from hers. “My lady,” he greeted warmly.

  “Shadowmaster,” she returned with mocking reverence. Withdrawing her hand from his, she retrieved a fan from a clip at her hip, flicking it open to wave its black-lace spread passively at her neck – which, he noted with interest, sported a gentle flush.

  He couldn’t help himself, smiling at the thought that she was unnerved by his kiss.

  “What?” she asked a little too defensively at his steady, amused gaze.

  His eyes roved over her before returning to hers. “You’re devastatingly striking.” Might as well milk the effect he had on her and throw her off her game, in case the evening did end in a chase. And in case she catches on to the fact that she could just as easily do the same to you.

  Her eyes narrowed, deciphering his intentions. If he knew her at all, she seemed to be rethinking her three-minute promise, deciding he was enjoying himself just a little too much.

  The gentle wave of her fan went abruptly rigid. In scarcely an instant she had snapped it closed, flipped it around, and charmed a jagged gold blade out from a secret sheath in its spine. She was around behind him in a flash, holding the knife to his throat.

  “Don’t make me show you the ironic thing about ‘devastatingly striking’, Clevwrith,” she warned.

  A foolish thrill went through him. He was enjoying this too much. “Easy, Des. I still have two minutes. And we all know how disappointing it would be for you to use this neutral ground as your big move, taking me in without conflict. I want you to catch me.”

  “You are caught.”

  “No. I am being fondly embraced. I am enjoying this. And I assure you I will not enjoy being caught. You win when you outsmart me, Des, or when you outrun me. Not when you pretend you would slit my throat if I tried to get away.”

  Grudgingly, Despiris removed the blade and released him. He turned to face her, removing a glove and lifting a finger to stroke her chin, tilting her head up to gaze directly into her eyes. They smoldered with the reflection of the glittering palace, that festive fortress alive with light beyond their shadow. Pure magic, he thought, smitten.

  “Two minutes,” she agreed humorlessly, visibly restraining herself.

  Best make the most of it. “My Shadeling,” he murmured, running a knuckle ever-so-softly down the side of her face. Stubbornly, she endured his taunting affection, visibly suppressing the shiver that rose at his touch. The flicker of a grin tugged at his lips. “So very clever. Using the light, and your pedestal at the top of the world, to cast the greatest shadow of all. If I had known you aspired to such greatness… That you aimed to overshadow even the night…” He shook his head with admiration, and then, allowing himself to become utterly transfixed, brushed a thumb suggestively across her lips. “I would have made more of our time together.”

  It was subtle, but he didn’t miss the way she stiffened. “One minute,” she said.

  Plenty of time to get in a kiss, he thought, but restrained himself. After all, there was still that awkwardness of their first kiss between them, and he had no wish to relive that particular humiliation. And while Despiris seemed affected on some level by his charms, her stiffness and little tricks of avoidance could be taken two ways.

  He would not push her.

  Grinning suddenly, he gave her chin a
playful tweak and backed up a step, quashing his intensity as if it had never been there. Music filtered out from the ballroom, and he flourished a sudden bow, extending his hand in invitation. “Join me for a dance?”

  Setting her jaw, she arched a wry brow. “Well, you’re certainly making the most of your three minutes, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve always run a tight schedule, Des. I have no issue working within such parameters.”

  For the first time, she fought a smile of amusement, and seemed to decide the light melody of a waltz was a casual enough affair to endure. She stepped forward to accept his hand.

  For a precious few moments, they glided with lighthearted congeniality about the dark lawn, frosty blades of grass crunching beneath their feet.

  “Have you tried the sweetcakes?” Clevwrith asked casually, a ludicrous stab at small talk. “I hear they’re to-die-for.”

  “Thirty seconds,” Despiris said, hopelessly married to her all-business approach. But she did seem to be enjoying their speedy interlude of accord, in spite of herself.

  “That old count-down again?” Clevwrith teased, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. “Please. Allow me to enjoy my remaining five seconds in peace. Or perhaps we should make a game of it – attempt to throw off the rhythm, and see if you can still keep count.” With a devilish smirk, he began counting to the beat of the waltz out loud. “One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three...”

  Unperturbed, Despiris allowed him his mischief, remaining a good sport for the last few turns of the dance. Then, drawing herself closer to him, she pressed a cheek to his, completely ignoring his insufferable counting to whisper in his ear, “Five…four…three…two…”

  “One,” he ended where he would otherwise have just started again, putting her at arms’ length to flourish a dramatic bow. He’d timed it perfectly, of course, ending with the hedge maze once more behind him. He hesitated a single moment, drawing out his bow as if presenting himself as an easy target – and then he bolted, disappearing into the dark, perfectly trimmed arch of the labyrinth.