Then she slowed, and Faythe swore she looked right at her as she sang her final verse:
The heir of souls will rise again,
Their fate lies in her palms.
With rings of gold and will of mind,
She’ll save the lives of men.
A sudden loud disruption in the crowd jerked Faythe from her hypnotic state. She looked to Marlowe, who was beaming and clapping along. When Faythe returned her attention to the performer, the woman was standing, taking her last bow, and did not look in their direction again as she left the stage.
But Faythe was left with a strange, unsettling feeling.
Shaking it off, she reached in to check her pocket watch and realized she would be late if she didn’t leave now. When no one was looking, she emptied her glass of wine to appear as if she had drunk it before turning to her friends.
“I’m really not feeling good. I think the wine had the opposite effect tonight,” she said, putting on a drained face.
Jakon’s brow furrowed. “We can go back—”
“Aw, but I’d like to stay,” Marlowe cut in for her. “I don’t usually come to these things. Faythe will be okay—won’t you?” She turned to her.
Faythe played her part. “Of course. You guys stay. There’s no point in us all sulking at home tonight. Enjoy the rest of the shows,” she pleaded.
Jakon’s forehead only creased deeper. She could tell he wanted to protest, but at Marlowe’s sad look, he let it go with a sigh. “All right. Well, I’ll see you at home then,” he said a little reluctantly.
She gave them both a quick embrace before weaving her way back out of the mob. She was quick at making it to Crow’s Lane in her hurried pace and soon beheld Ferris leaning casually against the wall, waiting for her as usual.
“A little overdressed, don’t you think?” he remarked.
She didn’t deign to respond and started pulling the crates down, discarding them quickly to get to her hidden items. Not waiting to see if Ferris would turn around since she was already dressed anyway, she started to untie the back of her gown and let it drop. He didn’t flinch, but she knew he was disappointed she wasn’t actually standing in her undergarments in the middle of the street.
It didn’t take her long to be fully equipped with her sword on her back and her hood and scarf concealing her face—fully embodying the Gold-Eyed Shadow she’d come to be known as. She hid her dress just as she had with the other items. Then, not wasting a second as they were already pushed for time, they made haste indoors, refusing to stop for anyone when they stalked past.
They arrived in The Cave just as the pit master was announcing the victor of the previous fight. At the top of the pit entrance, Ferris took Faythe’s cloak from her—as was their routine now—and when they announced the next fighters, she descended and let herself fall into her lethal calm. By the time she emerged into the great fighting ring, she was ready. The audience seemed to grow larger each time she was here, but she never let it rattle her focus.
When her competitor emerged, she had to hide her surprise. He was of a lot smaller build than she was used to being pitted against, standing only a few inches taller than her. While it might have been a relief to anyone else, Faythe still saw the opponent as the toughest she was yet to face. Her size wouldn’t be of much advantage in this match. She would be wise to assume he could be equally as quick on his feet. But she gauged she might also be an equal match in strength—or at least close to it. That was all she needed.
The pit master announced the beginning of their combat, and they stalked each other with a tracker’s eye. As anticipated, he was fast. Faythe dodged a lot of his advances, but he was smart and started to predict her moves.
She tried to feign right while going for an attack to the left, but he saw it coming, and she felt his elbow connect with her side, knocking the wind from her. She stumbled back and didn’t have time to regain her composure before he kicked her stomach. She went flying backward, hitting the ground hard.
Pain stabbed her abdomen, but she rolled just as he went to bring his blade down and shot to her feet. For the first time, she was closely matched in stealth.
Their blades connected in a series of high-pitched symphonies as they parried back and forth. When they met in the middle, her opponent pushed his blade against hers, sending her backward. In the same breath, steel flashed before her eyes, and Faythe twisted—but not fast enough. She felt a sharp sting across the top of her arm where the edge of his blade had sliced.
Retreating but not losing focus, she gaped. She was losing.
As a reigning champion, she’d let herself get complacent; arrogant. Her flame of passion had dwindled into dying embers. Besting brute men never challenged her. But now, coming to this realization awoke something within Faythe, and she found herself on the edge of his mind without even trying. Everything was right there for her viewing pleasure, but she couldn’t dive too deep or she wouldn’t be present enough to fight.
His movements flashed through her. She deflected far faster than she ever had before, gliding like smoke around his swipes of steel. It was as easy as breathing when she gave herself over to the instincts of her mind, and she moved with graceful swiftness to avoid his advances and deliver her own counterattack—all while being careful not to dodge so fast it wouldn’t look realistic. Though no one could ever suspect the advantage that dwelled within.
She had already cut him a few times, only to rouse the crowd and satisfy the onlookers’ bloodlust. She let her smile reach her eyes under her mask, taunting him as his frustrations grew. He ditched any sort of strategy for a series of lazy, frenzied attacks. Finally bored, Faythe twisted around to avoid his final blow and kicked his feet out from under him, standing over him a heartbeat later with two hands braced to plunge her blade down through his chest.
The crowd roared as the man beneath her seethed with rage—a look she was eerily familiar with. She made a few supercilious bows, remaining in character for the revelers above, before swaggering to her exit, a victorious smile tugging at her lips.
Chapter 32
Faythe waited in Crow’s Lane for Ferris to appear. Her arm stung and still bled a little as she examined the full extent of the injury, having no idea how she would explain it to Jakon. The bruises no doubt forming on her side and ribs would be much easier to hide.
Ferris gave a low whistle. “I thought I was going to lose you there for a moment.”
“So did I,” she grumbled.
“But alas, you pulled through.” He held out two pouches of coin—getting lighter each week, but still a generous amount.
She snatched them, then she took her cloak and slung it over herself.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
Faythe gave him a flat look, ignoring the fatuous question. “I need more time to fight the fae. I won’t stand a chance if I’m weakened in the slightest. Another two weeks.”
He opened his mouth to protest, but she gave him a look that said it was reschedule or she would back out completely. Ferris nodded in agreement.
“There’s already a lot of talk about it. It’s going to be a packed night.”
This wasn’t exactly encouraging information. Grabbing her discarded gown, she made to leave, but Ferris grabbed her arm.
“Even if you lose, we’ll still make good money. Don’t worry about it too much,” he said by way of comfort. When she answered with a small nod of thanks, he released her.
Becoming one with the shadows, Faythe made her way home.
Expecting Marlow and Jakon to still be at the shows or her cottage, Faythe threw the hut door open and halted in shock at the sight of them in the open kitchen, seated at the table. While she gaped, Jakon got to his feet, his face a mask of rage and disappointment. Marlowe met her bewildered look and winced, her face wrinkling in apology.
“I’m sorry, Faythe. He knew something wasn’t right. I had to tell him,” she said quickly, silently begging her forgiveness.
Fayth
e looked at Jakon and swallowed hard, waiting for the shouting to begin.
“How long?” he asked quietly.
She would rather he shouted at her, if only so she wouldn’t have to stare at his completely heartbroken face. “I… Jakon, I’m sorry. We needed the income, and I—I’m good at it,” she stumbled, unable to justify going behind his back.
He laughed bitterly, barely able to look at her. “Clearly, if you’ve been lying to me for as long as I think you have.” He shot an icy look at Marlowe. “Both of you.”
The blacksmith recoiled at the comment, and Faythe stepped between them.
“It’s me you’re angry with, not her. I made her keep the secret. You would never have let me do it.”
His eyes targeted her again. “It’s not for me to let you do anything, but lying to me? And getting Marlowe to distract me—that’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? It’s an all-time low for you,” he seethed.
She winced at the words but regained her composure. “I lost my job at the stall—I didn’t know what else to do. I wanted to earn my own money with a skill I happen to be really good at. It may not be up to your standards, but so far, I’ve done a pretty damned good job,” she retorted, not bothering to specify she had started fighting long before she was let go from Marie’s service.
His eyes flashed to her arm, and he scoffed. “Yeah, it seems so.”
She pulled her cloak back over it to cover the tear in her suit and glared at him. “It’s the first time I’ve even had a scratch, you prick.” They stared off for a long moment, the tension growing thick.
“Please can you not fight?” Marlowe said quietly from behind them.
It was Faythe who conceded first. With a long sigh, her face turned apologetic. “Look, Jak, I’m sorry I lied to you. Even at the mention of it, you were jumping in to stop me. I chose to do this, and you don’t have to like it, but I need you to accept it.”
The look of distaste and disappointment didn’t leave his face as he huffed in disbelief. He fired Marlowe the same look before turning on his heel and retreating to the bedroom without another word.
Faythe whirled to Marlowe who had tears forming in her eyes. Her shoulders sagged at the sight. This was all her fault. She’d caused friction and distrust between them all.
“Marlowe, I’m so sorry—” she began, but Marlowe waved a hand.
“I chose to help you. It’s not all your fault.” She cracked a weak smile that broke Faythe’s heart.
“No. I’ve been so selfish and foolish to think we could have kept it up without him ever finding out. I didn’t consider your relationship in this, and I’m sorry.”
Marlowe stood from her seat and motioned for Faythe to take it without a word. She did, and Marlowe removed her cloak, waiting for Faythe to unzip her suit so she could examine her wound. Her heart fractured. She didn’t deserve her tenderness—not now.
Faythe winced pulling her arm free but sat in her modest black undergarments while Marlowe filled a small basin with water and grabbed a cloth. Then she went to work, wordlessly cleaning Faythe’s arm with loving softness, while Faythe clenched her teeth to keep from hissing at the stinging sensation.
“He was suspicious the moment you left tonight,” Marlowe whispered. “He said nothing would make you miss the shows, and then he started to recall other times he thought your behavior was amiss. I couldn’t persuade him otherwise when he insisted we come back here, and when you weren’t home…it all came tumbling out. I’m so sorry, Faythe. I couldn’t think of any excuse for where you might be.” She sniffed, crying.
Faythe put a hand over the one that was brushing her arm, and Marlowe looked at her through teary eyes. “This is my doing, and his anger is with me. You have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. You’re a better friend than I deserve sometimes.” She smiled and reached to brush a stray tear from her friend’s perfect porcelain cheek. “He won’t stay mad for long,” she said softly, trying to ease her own fears as much as Marlowe’s.
“Maybe not, but I worry we’ve broken something that won’t be so easily mended.”
Faythe knew it too. It would take time before Jakon fully trusted either of them again, and her gut twisted. While one secret was now out in the open, an even deadlier one lay within her than was still unknown to either of them.
When Marlowe finished, she took a seat opposite Faythe.
“We should let him sleep on it. Nothing’s going to be sorted tonight,” Faythe said sadly.
Marlowe nodded and went to stand. “I think I should head home.”
“I’ll come with you.” Faythe rose too. “If that’s okay?”
Marlowe’s answering smile was enough. Faythe pulled her suit back up and slung her cloak on, Marlowe doing the same, and they headed out without a goodbye. Jakon would know where they had gone and would appreciate the solitude. His last look had suggested he couldn’t stand to be around them right now.
With a heavy heart, Faythe linked arms with Marlowe, and they took off down the cold, dark streets in somber silence.
Chapter 33
“Hammer, Faythe?”
Marlowe’s voice snapped her out of her wandering daydream. She glanced to her friend who stood holding a small dagger poised over an anvil expectantly.
“Sorry,” she muttered, grabbing the requested tool and passing it over.
Marlowe took the item without looking and went to bring it down upon the blade but paused, examining it with a sigh. “I know we both have our minds elsewhere, but rawhide is not going to fare well against steel.” She walked the few steps to swap her hammer without asking Faythe again. Probably wise. Faythe had failed to retain any of the information Marlowe tried to teach her about the blacksmithing trade.
She had been staying at her friend’s cottage, borrowing Marlowe’s clothes and following her to the workshop to distract herself from her aching heart. They were both suffering and had barely mustered any cheerful chatter in all their brooding. Faythe had decided to give Jakon as much space as he needed and would let him come to her—to them—but it had been three whole days since he discovered her unsavory nighttime antics, and each day, her heart cracked deeper.
It was the autumnal equinox outdoor ball on the hills tonight. Faythe couldn’t even bring herself to be slightly excited and had even considered not attending for the first year ever. It was much like the summer solstice, with bonfires, dancing, and stalls, but revelers usually wore masks or dressed as animals as a tribute for a good harvest that would see them through the winter. Faythe and Marlowe had already been shopping for their outfits last week.
“How long do we give him?” Faythe pondered out loud.
Marlowe paused her work and gave her a sad look. “As long as it takes,” she offered.
It didn’t help the sinking feeling Faythe had that he might never forgive her—not fully. She had lied to him for over a month and put a wedge between him and Marlowe because of it. She was horrible and selfish and wondered why Marlowe didn’t hate her too. She would deserve it, even accept it, if she did. But she was also incredibly grateful the blacksmith remained by her side. Marlowe was all she had to keep her from full self-destruction. She’d already pushed Nik away twice now, but missing Jakon was a deeper kind of empty void.
Faythe pushed off her perch by the tools and wandered aimlessly, eager to find something to take her mind off everything. She found herself by Marlowe’s smaller workbench, where the translated paper still remained along with the original and a series of books, as if Marlowe had tried to look deeper into some of the meanings. She noticed a few scribbles and circled words on her translated version and picked it up in curiosity. Next to the first line, she had written the names of the three Spirits:
Aurialis, Dakodas, Marvellas.
A line was drawn from the second verse.
Fenstead: Silver Forests?
High Farrow: Eternal Woods?
Faythe froze, realizing that must be the name of the woods she and Nik frequented. But she d
idn’t believe her friend would try to visit the woods that seemed like a living nightmare. No one tried to go in there.
She glanced at Marlowe still fully concentrating on her work. No—her friend was a picture of pure, delicate grace. She couldn’t imagine her ever setting foot in a place like that and enduring the same horrors Faythe had. She went back to examining the paper and the line that was drawn from the second verse:
Dalrune: Mortus Mountains?
Rhyenelle: Niltain Isles?
The thought of another one of those temples being as close as the mountains bordering High Farrow made her uneasy. But they were just old, useless stone buildings. At least, that was what Faythe convinced herself to retain her sanity about how she came to discover the Light Temple and what other magickal tricks could surround any others.
The third verse only had one possible conclusion for where the temple might be located:
Lakelaria: Sky Caves.
Faythe felt slight relief. At least there was no chance of her coming across that one. Regardless, they were all just Marlowe’s speculations; her obvious thirst for knowledge and ancient wonders coming into play. This was fun for her.
One word circled in the last verse made Faythe’s heart jump. A line leading from it said:
An Heir Comes to Rise Page 22