“We shall do that,” Martin said quickly. “I’ll send a man to your ship at once. Where are you docked? What’s the name of the vessel?”
Ferran hesitated. He wondered if it was wise to let Martin’s servants see their pirate ship. Or perhaps it didn’t matter. What harm could a simple summons do? “We’re at the south pier, anchored at dock 54 near the bottom end. ‘Tis a large schooner named the Dawn Seeker.”
Martin jotted the location onto a piece of parchment. “This illness is unlike anything we’ve seen before,” he continued as he wrote. “You’d be wise to avoid some areas of the city. They say as many as three hundred have already died on the west bank. Can you believe that? Three hundred! It’s a wonder the King hasn’t closed the gates. We’re hoping Headmaster Duncan will persuade him. The King might listen to the head of the seminary….” Martin sighed as though he had already abandoned that hope. “For now, King Royce is pacifying the lower tiers for winter solstice. He has such a soft touch with his people. Too soft, some say.”
“A travesty,” Ferran muttered.
“I’d say so!” his brother agreed, missing the sarcasm. “The First Tier is pressuring the King to close the gates as soon as possible. It’s for the good of the Kingdom. What if the royal family were to fall ill?”
Ferran shifted uncomfortably. “The lower tiers can’t be left to face this affliction on their own,” he said.
Martin raised an eyebrow. “Then what do you suggest?” he asked ironically. “There is no cure. This plague will pass eventually. The lower tiers will survive—the peasants are countless in number—but should the upper tier fall, who will replace us?”
Ferran searched his brother’s face, not quite trusting the man’s expression. Martin had never worked with his hands. He didn’t see the peasants as his countrymen; he didn’t understand their lives or day-to-day struggles. His brother was a true Ebonaire—arrogant and aristocratic, all smoothed over by deceptive warmth and charm.
“Please,” Martin continued after he finished his note. “Stay and tell me of your journey. I’ll have Donwick bring up lunch. This is a day for celebration—I have a new sister-in-law and niece, and my long-lost brother has returned home. Let’s not argue about the Kingdom’s fate.”
Ferran nodded, still uneasy. He didn’t expect to be welcomed home warmly after so many years. Had all the hatred come from his father alone? He couldn’t know for sure. And he didn’t know if Martin was ready to know the full story of the plague. Humans did not accept magic any more, especially in the modern City of Crowns. And with the Shade residing in The Regency, he felt reluctant to mention the Cat’s Eye, the Dark God or the races. He knew how servants listened and talked. He didn’t want word of their quest traveling around.
“Sit down, sit down!” Martin insisted, indicating the large armchairs around his desk.
At that moment, Donwick the butler strode into the room with a prestigious air. Ferran surmised he had been standing outside the entire time.
“Send a footman to the waterfront to arrange for Ferran’s wife,” Lord Martin said, and passed him the small folded parchment. “And bring lunch for my guests, and a bottle of our best wine! This will be a day of tall tales!” He turned to give them an engaging smile. “And I want to hear every last detail.”
* * *
Sora lay back on the stuffed feather mattress and stared at the wide canopy overhead. The bed was soft, like lying on a dense, woolen cloud. Rain thrummed against the tall window next to her. As she watched, the rain lessened and large white snowflakes began to drift down from the sky, glowing in the light of a single lantern on her bedside table. They looked like flecks of crystal drifting down from a pitch-black oblivion, silent as ash. The first snow of winter.
Her eyes roved restlessly around the dark room: two ornate bedside tables, a large writing desk, a majestic wardrobe and vanity. The walls were covered in oil paintings of spring gardens and placid sunrises. A wide, elaborate strip of crown molding framed the high ceiling.
Ebonaire. Ferran was their eldest disowned son, and she would spend the next two weeks at the Ebonaire estate. She still couldn’t quite believe it. She half-expected to fall asleep and wake up back on the Dawn Seeker, still sailing up the Little Rain.
All this time, she had treated Ferran like a scruffy ragtag pirate, only to discover he was next to royalty. The reality hadn’t fully struck her until she saw him standing in Martin’s office, face-to-face with his brother, and she felt that air about him—the unmistakable confidence of a lord.
She put one hand on her head, still unable to absorb it all. How long had her mother known? The entire time? Why hadn’t Lori told her?
Sora wished she could ask, but her mother wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow. Meanwhile, Lady Danica’s fever worsened in the room across the hall. She could hear the low chatter of maids as they came and went. She wondered if Lady Danica’s health was the only reason for their stay. Martin Ebonaire was obviously desperate for a skilled Healer. He might have welcomed them warmly, but he had asked after Lori all through the afternoon, and again at dinner. Sora wondered if he would toss them out as soon as his daughter recovered.
The two brothers seemed like night and day. Martin was every inch an aristocrat, while Ferran sprawled rather than sat at the dinner table. Martin didn’t seem to question their story, as Ferran told it. The treasure hunter claimed to have made gobs of wealth with his practice. He described the rolling sand dunes of Ester and the black, polished surface of the Glass Coast, where lightning storms ignited the sand. He described his retirement, including his marriage to Lori and the birth of their daughter. That’s about where the story stopped. Sora remained mostly silent.
“And after so long, why visit now?” Martin asked.
Ferran shifted, as though truly embarrassed by his question. “Father died,” he finally said. “Five years ago, I know, but I never made my goodbyes. Family seems more important now than it once did.”
The conversation continued until she sensed the late hour and retired for the night. Ferran and Martin remained awake, to her knowledge, still speaking in the drawing room. She wondered what Ferran would tell his brother after a few more glasses of brandy. How far would his story go?
Sora bit her lip and watched the snow drift languidly down from the sky. She tried not to think of the day ahead. She couldn’t remember the last time she had socialized with other nobles. Her Blooming, perhaps. Martin said he would arrange for Danica’s handmaid to escort her around the Regency tomorrow for a new wardrobe, fit for a daughter of the Ebonaire estate. In short—dress shopping. She writhed uncomfortably at the thought. She would much rather start hunting for the Shade, and track down Burn as quickly as possible. She was only too aware of their wasted afternoon. Her thoughts had returned to Burn over and over again. If he was found dead, she would never forgive herself.
But Crash was absent; he vanished later in the evening. She could only wonder where he went—perhaps he had already found the Shade’s trail, and was hunting down Burn. She couldn’t allow herself to hope.
Sora closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to go to sleep. She rolled over, away from the large window and swirling gusts of snow.
CHAPTER 19
Crash crouched on the ledge outside Sora’s window. The steeply slanted tiles of the Ebonaire roof made balancing difficult. Fragile snowflakes dusted the roof in a fine white quilt. He watched Sora toss and turn inside her grand bedroom.
Then he turned to the sprawling grounds of the Ebonaire estate. A blanket of snow obscured the wide front drive and expansive gardens. No light penetrated the darkness. Still, to his nocturnal eyes, he was able to make out the trimmed hedges, marble statues, and even the lumbering oak trees that marked the beginning of the driveway.
He felt neither the snowflakes nor the cold wind. As a creature of Fire and Darkness, his thoughts burned and simmered like hot coals.
Ferran was wasting their time. Crash didn’t see any evidence of the Shade in T
he Regency, and Burn’s life still hung in the balance. He couldn’t wait for Cobra or Cerastes to show themselves. He had made a promise to Sora, and he intended to keep it.
He watched her for another minute, ensuring that the windows were locked and that no one could enter from the outside. He wondered how she felt, surrounded by such decadence after so much rough time on the road. She didn’t seem as comfortable as he had expected. She never spoke fondly of her life as a noble—certainly never wanted to return to it.
He finally turned around and leapt from the window ledge, sliding easily down the side of the tiered roof. He caught hold of an ivy-covered trellis and climbed down the rest of the way to the ground and started his solitary way to the city.
Burn. He didn’t want to frighten Sora, didn’t want to tell her their companion would be dead soon if he didn’t act. His kind were not merciful. If he told her the danger, she would want to accompany him, and he couldn’t allow that. Cerastes wanted her Cat's-Eye necklace, and he had to keep her away from the Shade.
You’re a fool, he thought. She would never forgive him for this. But sacrifices must be made.
Once in the city, he flagged a coach to take him to the docks. Along the way, his thoughts dwelled on Caprion’s interrogation of the female assassin. The Shade wanted the weapons of the Dark God, and although Crash loathed the thought of helping their enemy, he couldn’t justify leaving Burn to die. Sentiment. Such thoughts went against his brutal training.
Logically, he knew Cerastes would use the sacred weapons for his own dark purposes. So by bringing him the weapons, Crash played directly into his hands.
Perhaps that was the only way to win.
The coach arrived at the silent docks. Slipping aboard the Dawn Seeker was easy at this late hour, as most of the crew were asleep or exploring various pubs along the riverfront. He tied a black scarf around the lower half of his face, and pulled his hood down low. He didn’t want to be recognized if he were seen. Then he scaled the side of the ship and pulled himself onto the deck.
He walked stealthily to Sora’s cabin without incident, and found the small wooden box beneath her cot. It sent a tingle of energy through his hands, and he felt a stirring deep in his gut, just beneath his lungs. With a slow intake of breath, he removed the sacred weapons and tucked them securely under his cloak. Their freezing energy seeped through his shirt, and made his skin prickle like static.
The demon moved closer to the surface of his skin. What are you doing, little snake? it whispered.
Crash didn’t reply. He waited for its presence to fade. Then he turned to leave.
Caution, the demon murmured, but he ignored it. He walked halfway down the narrow hall when a white light suddenly flared behind him.
He paused. Painful vibrations crossed his skin. Damn.
“Halt!” Caprion’s voice rang with authority. The word struck the assassin’s back like a gust of wind. “Show yourself! Who goes there?”
Crash didn’t hesitate. He took off running silently on the wooden planks. He heard Caprion curse and give chase. Another searing vibration rolled across his skin, and Caprion called out in authoritative command, “Stop!”
His body shuddered, wanting to obey, but his demon’s strength flared and he shrugged off the compulsion. He reached the deck, but Caprion was following closely.
Crash ran directly for the railing, intending to jump into the midnight waters of The Bath, but he knew no matter how far he ran, the Harpy could fly and follow him. Now what? he thought in frustration. He needed the weapons to save Burn’s life. He wouldn’t let another friend die at his expense. Caprion couldn’t understand that; he already thought Crash was allied with the Shade.
White light surrounded the assassin's feet. With a crack of power, the Harpy brought him crashing to the deck. The light engulfed his body and made his legs and arms heavy, his breath labored. The bright sheen burned his eyes. He found himself pinned to the floor, but managed to get onto his knees, resisting the Harpy’s power, although his attempts were nearly futile.
“Give back the weapons,” Caprion repeated. His words echoed as though he stood in a domed chamber, not on the icy deck of the Dawn Seeker.
You’ll have to kill me, Crash thought, but didn’t speak aloud. His voice would betray his identity.
Then, unexpectedly, a dark shadow pooled beneath him. It seemed to counteract the light, and for a moment, the two forces strained against each other with a crackling intensity. Then the darkness continued to spread. Crash glanced down, unnerved by the sight, though not entirely surprised. He knew the Shade was watching him.
A body climbed out of the wooden deck—out of the portal. He recognized the man immediately.
Cobra leered at the Harpy. “Surprise!” he laughed. Then, to Crash, “What are friends for?” He wrapped his arms around Crash’s torso and dragged him down through the portal. It felt similar to sinking in quicksand. Disorienting black mist enveloped him; he saw nothing, heard nothing. He no longer smelled the river, or felt the snow pelting his skin.
When Crash next opened his eyes, he lay underground, on a cold stone floor.
His head spun. He wasn’t used to traveling through portals, and his stomach churned for a long minute. He took several deep breaths to steady himself, then got back on his feet.
As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he became aware of Cobra standing before him. The assassin wore a splint on one arm where Burn’s mighty sword had cracked his wrist. His face was covered by a ragged black cowl.
“Come,” Cobra beckoned in his wheezing voice. “The Master expects you.” He turned and walked away through a long corridor of heavy gray stone.
Crash hesitated before following him, but he didn’t have much choice. The only path lay forward.
They walked in silence. The air was musty and stale. Cobra led him through a series of dark tunnels and half-built chambers. He noted exposed wooden beams along the ceiling of each room. It appeared that their location was still under construction. The sound of churning gears echoed faintly through the rock. He tilted his head, trying to identify the sound, but could not discern it.
Eventually, they arrived at a central room where many different tunnels converged. The ceiling expanded outward into a wide, cavernous dome. A distant trickle of water echoed through the chamber. He couldn’t tell which tunnel it came from. He suspected they were somewhere in the sewer systems beneath the City of Crowns, but he wasn’t sure. They could be in an ancient mountain tomb, or the basement of a long-forgotten temple.
Then a shadow moved at the center of the room. His eyes detected a misty, evanescent figure. Suddenly, he recognized the third wraith.
Crash's body stiffened, and his skin prickled in alarm. The wraith floated back and forth, hovering in the air. A tattered cloak covered its vaporous body. The creature seemed to continually dissolve and re-form out of mist, as though it only half-existed on the physical plane.
Then the specter took notice of him, changed course, and hurtled across the room with a sudden, piercing shriek.
Crash stumbled back and drew out his dagger, from reflex, expecting the wraith to barrel into him. But it abruptly stopped in mid-flight. A keen of frustration split his ears. The thing raised its arms, skeletal hands clenched, as though pounding against an unseen door.
Crash slowly lowered his dagger and glanced down. On the floor, a circle of white powder kept the wraith contained. At first he thought it was salt, but it was too fine. Sand? Powdered bone? What kind of sorcery is this? he wondered. What magic could imprison a creature from the underworld?
“Don’t look so surprised,” a low voice said. The familiar tone sent a shiver down his spine. “This spell is but a single page in The Book of the Named.”
A tall figure uncoiled from the shadows across the room. Crash’s throat tightened, but he forced himself to remain calm. He knew the man’s stride before he saw his face.
Cerastes approached him with a slow, deliberate step. He seemed to glide rath
er than walk, as darkly ethereal as the captured wraith. He paused a few yards away, and the two men stared at each another. Crash observed him closely. He was a tall man, his muscular physique visible through his layers of robes. Long black hair trailed down to his navel. His cheeks were thin and gaunt, his eyes like hollow lanterns. Deep lines around his lips marked his age, yet his aura permeated the room like black smoke.
Crash recoiled instinctively. No, this is not a man. The Grandmaster’s demon had grown so strong, its presence bled into the air like a toxic cloud. Cerastes’ skin looked paper-thin, merely a costume, to be worn as the demon’s guise.
“I take it you’ve come for the Wolfy?” he prompted.
Crash nodded. He didn’t trust his voice yet.
“Then you’ve brought me the weapons.” A thin smile twisted Cerastes’ lips, utterly meaningless.
Crash felt numb, somehow paralyzed. He wondered if he had made a mistake…but it was too late to change his mind. If he showed any sort of weakness, any sort of hesitancy, he would be killed.
“Release the Wolfy,” he said directly, “and you will have your weapons…if he’s still alive.”
Cerastes’ lips quirked. His gaze traveled to Cobra. “Bring him out. Let our snake see for himself.”
Cobra bowed. Shadows gathered at his feet, and a second later he disappeared. Crash gazed at where the assassin had stood. The fifth gate. He was sorely reminded of his own shortcomings. He might be renowned in the Hive for physical combat, but his other skills were limited.
Cerastes folded his arms and turned back to him. “Now, Viper,” he said, “why are you really here?”
Crash shifted. He knew Cerastes had carefully planned this confrontation. His Grandmaster was cunning, above all else. He wanted something more than just the weapons.
Crash wondered if he could use that to his advantage, and if he could learn more about the Shade’s plan. He would surely need to choose his words wisely.