Gods, there were just too many unanswered questions!
Josephine wished she was crouched beside the caped stranger. At least from his vantage point, she’d be able to see inside the courtroom. She lowered the scope and while she waited for her eyes to adjust, she considered the distance between the balcony and courthouse rooftop. If she had to, could she make that jump? It was a long ways between the two buildings and a long fall if she failed.
But if she had to do it, could she?
She eyeballed the distance again. She wasn’t sure. Frustration mounted. Probably not.
A clamor of raised voices rose from the street below. People were suddenly streaming out of the courthouse. Josephine strained to hear something of what they were saying. Anything at all.
Guilty. Execution. War.
Those were just three of the words she overheard, and not at all what she had hoped to hear. The trial must have gone as Bolodenko had predicted. How could he have known? Gods, she felt sick about what was happening to poor Ian Weatherall. He didn’t deserve any of this.
Once most of the people had left the area, the caped man produced a thin black rope attached to a small grappling hook. He anchored the hook to one of the windowsills and carefully climbed inside. Within seconds, he had disappeared.
Josephine waited. Minutes dragged by. After half an hour had passed and the caped man still hadn’t returned, she began to worry that he might have been caught. Or perhaps he had escaped out another way. She waited a few minutes more and then finally boredom set in and she stretched and paced around the room. How much longer would she have to stay here with her silent jailers?
She repacked her Farseeing Scope. Next to it was the book she’d been reading the night her father had been taken, The History and Legends of the Fallerian Sentinels. Neko Blood had given it to her last year while she was preparing for her lead role in The Lady of Shadows. At the time, she’d only read the pertinent parts, but a few weeks back she’d decided to start at the beginning and read it over from cover to cover. With potentially hours of tedium still staring her in the face, she sighed, flopped down across the bed and picked up where she’d left off.
At first, she couldn’t concentrate on the words. Her mind kept returning to Edgar. Would he be alright? Would he succeed in freeing Lord Ian or would they be caught in the process? And if they were caught, how soon afterwards would word be given to the stone-faced men to execute her? Despite what Edgar had said about Bolodenko, she didn’t believe the moneylender would simply let her go. She tried to block it all out and read . . .
Was this her last day? In a few hours would she witness her last sunset? Would she live to see the new morning?
Josephine rolled over and beat her fist against a pillow. Gods, she usually wasn’t so grim! She climbed out of bed and walked over to stare at Trago. “Have you killed many people?”
Nothing.
“Can you hear me in there?”
Nothing.
“If Edgar fails, you’re supposed to kill me, aren’t you?”
Nothing.
“Will you do it quickly without pain or are you supposed to make me suffer?”
Nothing.
She looked him up and down. He wasn’t carrying any obvious weapons.
“Would you strangle me?”
Nothing.
“Snap my neck?”
Nothing.
She walked over to Como. His carved smirk was only slightly more inviting than Trago’s grimace.
“Which one of you will do it?”
Nothing.
“I think I’d rather have you do it.”
“Why?”
Josephine blinked. Had he spoken or was that her imagination playing tricks on her? “Did you say something?”
Nothing.
She tried to find his eyes behind the dark mask. Found only shadows. With a shrug, she figured she’d answer even if he hadn’t asked her anything.
“I remember when you two would visit my father. Both of you would beat him, but you . . .” Her throat suddenly felt very dry and she paused to swallow. “But you didn’t leave him bleeding on the floor. You would pick him up and carry him to his bed.”
Como said nothing.
Josephine glanced past him out the window. The grappling hook was still there. Had the caped man come out again and left it, or was he still inside somewhere?
With a great sigh, she went back to her book. After a while, the words hooked her attention and she finished the section about the rise of the Fallerian Sentinels and began reading about their fall. Their great success in part played an important role in their destruction. Even though Fallerians were able to communicate over long distances using some sort of mind-linking ability, their numbers were spread too thin around the world. Their attempts to bring balance to magic created numerous enemies. Gods and men alike grew to despise them. They were hunted mercilessly and despite their shape-changing abilities many were discovered and killed. Their birth rates declined. As each of the Gallesian’s major cities, and countries and finally continents lost their Fallerian Sentinels, rogue magic flourished. Balance was lost. Chaos reigned. And within this chaos, evil was bred.
Eventually, seven of the greatest Fallerian Sentinels were corrupted. By whom or what, there was only speculation. Some claimed an unholy relic perverted them. Others mentioned the appearance of an old god of pandemonium. Regardless of the truth, the Saldoleichts, the Fallerian ruling family consisting of fourteen brothers and sisters, split apart with seven members remaining true to their cause while the other seven fell into darkness. According to historians, the Breaking occurred roughly ten centuries ago and Gallesia has been haunted by the Sinful Seven and has suffered the consequences of their evil actions ever since. Only the diligence of the Pure Seven has kept the world from tipping into complete and utter chaos.
Josephine closed the book on a finger and stared up at the ceiling lost in thought. From what she’d learned over the years, the last Fallerian enclave had been wiped out thirty years ago. Occasionally, when her father would drink too much, he’d rant about how unlikely it was that a nomadic race of people with no true homeland could destroy such a noble race all on their own. Impossible! He would shout. Nothing but lies!
It was during these angry binges that her mother would usher them out of the room, and sometimes have them spend the night at a neighbor. At the time, Josephine didn’t know what to think. She loved her father dearly, but she never understood his obsession with this lost race.
Why did he care about them so deeply?
But now, according to what she’d just read, the Fallerians weren’t entirely lost. The Fourteen remained. They had survived. Somehow. For over a millennium.
That seemed a bit far-fetched to her. In her research for the show, she’d learned Fallerians were long-lived people, sometimes staying active well past a hundred, but never had she read anything about them or anyone else living a thousand years!
And besides, if anyone had lived that long, people would know about them. The Euclacian Oracle for example was rumored to be a hundred and twenty-five. And there was a Seneician ship captain named Roberto Gee who claimed to be a hundred and ten. Even her grandfather in Gyunwar was ninety-two . . .
No. That wasn’t right. Her grandfather was a man she’d never met named Bonn Tish and he lived in Bel’yowlye, the onetime capital of the Fallerian nation. Dozens of different races had inhabited that great city over the centuries and from what she’d read, many remained. Idly she wondered which race Bonn Tish was.
No sooner had that thought occurred to her, she had another more disturbing thought.
Which race was she?
Josephine closed her eyes. This was all getting to be a bit much for her. Over the past few days, she had lost her entire family and now that she’d had a moment to consider some of her father’s last words, she realized a part of her identity stood in question too. Her entire life she’d thought she was bi-racial, part Gyunwarian, part Yordician, bu
t that had proven to be false.
What was true anymore? Who was she? What was she?
She opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling lost in a sea of questions without any answers. She was used to playing different roles on stage, but even then, she had an idea about the character. And whatever the script didn’t give her, she’d research, or discuss with Neko Blood or . . .
Josephine jolted upright in bed. The history book tumbled off her chest and lay forgotten in her lap. Fallerians were shape-changers. That was the key! To avoid public notice over the past thousand years, all the Fourteen would have to do was play different roles from time to time. Take on different personas. Pretend to be different people . . .
Pretend to be different people.
Josephine froze. The small hairs on the back of her neck rose. The faint buzzing sounded inside her head again. Was she crazy to think . . .?
The conversation she’d had with Edgar played out again in her mind. She was sure there was something off about him . . . something wrong . . . but she’d been too caught up in what he was saying to really pay attention to how he was saying it.
He’d only called her ‘Josephine’ never ‘Jo’. And he hadn’t used the word ‘ain’t’ once . . .
And most telling of all, he hadn’t made a single lewd comment during their entire conversation!
Gods, this was crazy! She had to be wrong. There had to be a simpler explanation for everything. Perhaps she was having some bizarre reaction to lack of sleep, and stress, and pain and grief and . . . and reading about stuff in a musty old book that probably wasn’t even true! There was no way this could be happening. Could it? Had she, of all people, stumbled onto some sort of nefarious scheme by one of the Dark Seven? Had she talked to one of the shape-changing Fallerians out of history and legends? No, no, no. She shook her head. No! It had to be her imagination playing tricks on her. She was tired and . . . and . . .
If that had been the real Edgar, and he was heading off on a potentially life-threatening mission, he wouldn’t have left without begging for a kiss.
“C’mon, Jo, you mean you ain’t gonna let me have one little kiss? Not even for luck?”
There was no doubt in her mind, that’s what he would have said. She sucked in a deep breath as an icy chill spread throughout her body. Could the Edgar she’d talked to really have been the mysterious Bolodenko? Was he one of the shape-changing Saldoleichts? Was he a Sinful or a Pure? And where was the real Edgar? Was he safe or was he already . . . dead?
Josephine grabbed her head. The buzzing had turned into a pounding drum. This was all too much! She didn’t know what to do! What could she do? She was stuck in this room with Trago and Como. She was waiting for Edgar . . . no! For all she knew, he was already dead, and she would soon be joining him.
The drumming grew louder.
She needed answers and she knew the stone-faced men wouldn’t divulge anything. She grabbed for the fallen history book hoping perhaps she’d find something more in there and abruptly jerked her hand back. Her heart pounded. She started trembling all over.
What was the name on the front inside cover?!
She rubbed her eyes and looked again.
Blood, Neko.
Oh. She let out a long sigh. Of course, the book belonged to Neko, but just a few seconds ago she’d seen a different name.
Bolodenko.
She stared at the name, studied the letters. BLOOD, NEKO. Her tired eyes and over-excited imagination must have been playing tricks on her . . .
The name blurred again. The letters jumbled. Sweat beaded on her forehead.
BLOOD, NEKO. BOLODENKO.
Gods! She inhaled sharply. All the letters were there. It couldn’t be a coincidence.
chapter 10
The guard stationed outside Ian’s cell listened to the prisoner scream until his voice broke. Then there were only muffled groans and whimpers, punctuated by the occasional sound of fists striking flesh, followed by Lord Ragget shouting. “Do it again!”
The magical chanting started anew. The guard understood enough of the foreign language to figure out what the wizard inside was trying to do. He was trying to insert a memory . . . a very specific memory, but Ian’s mind continually refused to accept it.
Time passed. The guard leaned against the wall. He was bored. He would have much rather have spent his evening at the theater, but sometimes he was forced to perform tasks he didn’t like, such as, standing outside a cell door for hours on end. When would the replacement guards arrive? Would they come before or after Lord Ragget left?
“Did you kill the king?” Lord Ragget asked for perhaps the hundredth time.
The room beyond was filled with silence. The guard strained to hear Ian’s answer. Part of him hoped the stubborn Gyunwarian would just answer yes and end his suffering. End his own suffering too.
“No,” a woeful voice whispered. “No.”
“Why isn’t it working?!” Ragget shrieked.
The guard leaned closer. He wanted to hear the answer too.
“It would help if we could use the actual memory of the killing . . .”
“That’s not possible.”
Interesting. The guard hadn’t thought Lord Ian had killed the king, but it sounded like Lord Ragget knew who did.
“Then I’ll just keep doing what I’m doing . . .”
“But why isn’t that WORKING?”
The guard smiled to himself. Perhaps this night wasn’t an entire waste of time and money.
“The brain is like a stone wall, uniform, solid,” the torturer said. “I’ve been removing stones to make his thoughts unstable and replacing them with bricks of new information.”
The guard’s smile faded. The torturer was removing parts of Lord Ian’s memory? He didn’t like the sound of that.
“I understand your method,” Ragget continued in a low voice. “What I don’t understand is why he won’t accept this one tiny bit of new information.”
The guard leaned a little closer.
“Because, he truly is a good person,” the torturer said. “He simply refuses to believe he murdered the king.”
“Knock the wall down,” Ragget ordered.
“I don’t think I understand.”
“You said his mind is like a wall. Knock it down. Remove it. Take away all the stones and replace it with one brick. One image only.” Ragget’s demand worried the guard. “Make him admit he killed King Henrik or he won’t be the only one killed later today.”
“I . . .”
“Do it!”
Footsteps approached the door. The guard straightened. Eyes forward. Face blank. The door jerked open.
“One more thing,” Ragget stopped in the hall and glanced back at the torturer. “Once you’ve succeeded in erasing his mind, sew up his mouth. I don’t want him to admit his guilt right away. The king might order the torture halted too quickly. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Lord Ragget offered the guard the briefest of dark scowls and stalked back down the hall toward the exit without saying another word. The guard gave a sigh of relief. Lord Ragget was finally gone.
The guard stepped into the cell. Lord Ian was chained to a table in the center of the room. Stephano Di Rygazzo was bent over him, his fingertips pressed firmly against the lord’s temple.
“You haven’t changed a bit since last I saw you,” the guard said.
Stephano Di Rygazzo straightened. His pale white eyes darkened until they resembled the night’s sky. “I wondered when you would come to see me. What’s with the disguise?”
“The other two in the city aren’t aware of me yet,” the guard said. He closed his eyes and when he reopened them, he’d taken on his Bolodenko appearance, tall, dark, foreboding. “And I’d like to keep it that way, if I can.”
Stephano Di Rygazzo arched an eyebrow and his lips pulled into a faint sneer. “I much rather prefer your natural facade.”
Bolodenko closed his eyes and allowed his
mind to relax. He inhaled deeply . . .
. . . And Neko Blood exhaled and opened her eyes.
“Much better,” Stephano Di Rygazzo said. “Stunning as ever.”
“I appreciate the compliment,” Neko Blood said, quietly. “But I have a couple of pressing matters that need to be discussed and time is short.”
Stephano Di Rygazzo shook his head. “You know I don’t take sides.”
Neko Blood gestured toward Lord Ian. “What do you call this?”
The wizard cracked a faint smile. “Point taken. What do you want?”
“I overheard what you intend to do with him,” Neko Blood said. “But before you blank his mind, I’d like a piece of information.”
“Such as?”
“Scylthia. I’ve heard there’s a land route to the jungle outpost. I believe his grandfather Lord Alan Weatherall discovered it. I want it.”
“That’s easy enough.” Stephano Di Rygazzo nodded. “I suppose I could do a bit of digging for you.”
“I also want his soul.”
The wizard crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s not so easy.”
“You’ve done it before.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it . . .” Stephano Di Rygazzo said. “It’s just . . .”
“What do you need?”
“Well . . .” The wizard tapped a long-tapered finger against his lips. “I’ll need someone to serve as a temporary Soul-Receptacle . . .”
“I’ve brought another Gyunwarian with me,” Neko Blood said. “He’s a couple of cells down.”
“Fine, but to be fair, I need to finish my work on Ian here for Lord Ragget,” Stephano Di Rygazzo said. “He is paying me a hefty fee.”
“I’ll match it,” Neko Blood offered.
“Of course, you will, but I also need one other thing from you.”
“What?”
“A memory. Something I can manipulate,” the wizard said. “Have you ever killed a man with a dagger?”
“A dagger? No. I have men who do that kind of work for me,” Neko Blood said. “But the man I’ve brought with me has. Recently, too.”
Stephano Di Rygazzo rubbed his hands together. “Then, my dear Neko, you have yourself a deal. Out of curiosity, why do you want his soul?”
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