Slight and Shadow Page 12

D’Mere smiled and patted her gently on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, gather whatever supplies you need and let Holthan know of his duties. I’ve got to write to Lord Gilderick — he’ll be pleased to know that I’ve accepted his invitation.”

  Elena stopped at the doorway. “I thought you said you weren’t going this year.”

  “Well … I’ve changed my mind,” D’Mere said, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Leave now, and travel quickly.”

  Elena nodded, slowly. She still looked confused as she closed the door.

  The moment she was gone, D’Mere could hold it in no longer. She hurried across the room and tore through the piles of letters, flinging them aside until she came to the last one. She read the final sentence Aerilyn had written, hoping against hope that she’d somehow misread it. But she hadn’t:

  I can’t tell you where we’re headed next, dear Horatio — Kael said it wouldn’t be safe to tell. But I can offer you a riddle: what’s the distance of the sea, and what would the opposite of lavish be?

  The Endless Plains.

  D’Mere’s heart began to pound as she grabbed a quill and parchment. She quickly scribbled a letter to Gilderick, her hands shaking all the while. The moment she was finished, she stood. Her nightgown swept out behind her as she paced, the soles of her feet were damp against the cold stone floor.

  She didn’t like this sick feeling, this sort of worry. She wasn’t at all used to it — and to be perfectly honest, she never thought she would have to feel it. Her mind should be focused on more important matters, after all. There were far greater things at stake than the fate of a merchant’s daughter who’d wandered so foolishly into Gilderick’s realm …

  And then again, there was nothing greater.

  *******

  Dark clouds gathered over Midlan in the early afternoon. They hovered above the fortress for an hour or so, swelling as they murmured their rumbling threats to the soldiers who wandered outside the barracks. At last, the clouds seemed to run out of things to say. And for a while, the grounds were silent.

  Then they opened their gullets and spewed forth such a downpour of icy rain that every man went sprinting for shelter.

  Argon watched it all take place from his window. He kept his chambers high atop one of the castle’s smallest towers, and from there he had quite a view of the chaos beneath him. He could even hear the rhythmic tink of the rain as it landed on the soldiers’ ironclad heads. Even though they’d just begun their shifts, they already had to pace across the walls to stay warm. It would be a wretched watch, and though Argon certainly pitied them, they would find no mercy from the King.

  With every night the Dragongirl went unfound, Crevan slipped closer to the brink of madness. He traveled his own halls with his sword drawn and ready at his hip, a torch burning in his other hand. He slept in full armor. Not one week ago, Argon heard the servants claim that the King had ordered the windows in his throne room to be covered in mortar and stone.

  He ate little; he drank less. And as far as anybody knew, he hadn’t stuck his head outside since autumn.

  Argon sighed heavily as he watched the guards — though his frustration was not because their clothes were already soaked through, nor that many of them would likely fall ill doing a task that could have waited for the rains to cease. No … what worried him the most was something he couldn’t seem to remember.

  After a few moments of frustrated pacing, a shadow crossed over his window. He looked up in time to see the flutter of a sparrow as he rushed to find someplace dry to land.

  Ah, now Argon remembered.

  His ears were not as sharp as they’d once been, but he could still hear the many voices of the young mages who were camped inside his tower. With the King’s mind weakening, the curse on their shackles began to wane. Crevan’s orders didn’t carry the weight they once had, and the young mages had taken the opportunity to wander from their rooms.

  They loved to spend their days among Argon’s books and instruments: studying, experimenting, and generally making a mess of things. Though there were far more char marks on his walls than there had been before, it made him happy to listen to their tittering. The young ones were often a danger to themselves, if they didn’t get the proper training.

  And speaking of the young ones — he’d promised to read something for them. That’s what he’d been doing, before the vision struck him. He’d been leaning over his desk, his nose buried in a rather peculiar book.

  One of the young mages had brought it to his office, claiming that he’d found it buried among the tomes in the King’s library. He’d been afraid to open it, however: for some reason, he seemed to think it might be hexed.

  Argon searched the tattered cover twice over for spells, but hadn’t found anything amiss. The longer he studied it, the more curious he became, and it wasn’t long before he’d decided to open it and read it for himself. This proved to be a more difficult task than he’d ever expect.

  The book was old, and its pages were unusually thick. Most of the writing was faded to the point that it’d almost disappeared — but that wasn’t why Argon was having a difficult time reading it.

  No … there was something odd about this book. It seemed like every time he sat down to read it, something happened to interrupt him: a knock at the door, or a small explosion from the next room, a fire that he had to put out. Not two minutes ago, he’d been reading along when a vision suddenly erupted across his eyes. Now he found he couldn’t remember what he’d read.

  In fact, he couldn’t even remember the book’s title.

  He had to flip to the front cover again to remind himself: The Myth of Draegoth. Ah yes, now he remembered. It was a storybook — something a child might’ve read to escape his studies. The book was little more than the legend of how the first King came to be …

  Then why was Argon having such a difficult time reading it?

  He cleared his throat and settled back down at his desk, determined to start where he’d left off:

  From the bonds of magic pure and earth’s most gleaming vein, the archmage did forge the King’s salvation: a protection called the Dragonsbane.

  Well, confound it all — none of that made any sense to him. He must’ve started in the wrong place. Argon flipped back to the beginning and was searching through the pages for a familiar line when the tower suddenly fell deathly silent.

  All of the young mages’ chatter had stopped. Argon could practically hear the rustle of their robes as they parted — making way for the tower’s unsavory guest. His familiar, dragging steps stopped just outside of the door.

  The frame rattled and dust fell from the ceiling as he struck it hard three times.

  “Come in,” Argon said lightly, when the pounding stopped.

  The door swung open and slammed against the wall. There was already a chip in the stone from where the knob had struck it on several other occasions, so Argon didn’t worry too much about the damage.

  The royal beastkeeper crowded through the doorway. He was a monstrous, bare-chested fellow, and today he wore breeches that had been shredded to the knee. Small tufts of white hair sprouted through the little patches of his massive head that wasn’t covered in scars.

  Upon his arm perched a stormy gray hawk. His head was slouched forward and his feathers were puffed out, as if he was trying to brace himself against the cold, even though the tower was comfortably warm.

  The beastkeeper grunted as he held his arm out to Argon. The man couldn’t speak. Argon didn’t know why, but he suspected it had something to do with the scarred claw marks on his throat — the ones that started at his chin and raked their way down to his chest.

  “One moment.” Argon pulled a heavily-padded glove out of his desk drawer and slipped it over his hand.

  He put his arm next to the beastkeeper’s, and the hawk stepped obediently onto the glove. His talons left small, bloodied gashes along his bare arm, but the beastkeeper didn’t seem to notice. Though his face was too mangled to show much of
anything, Argon could read the worry in his one good eye.

  “He isn’t ill,” Argon said quietly. He stroked the hawk’s chest with the back of his forefinger, and his amber eyes hooded in content. “I’ve Seen what troubles him. He mourns for a friend.”

  The beastkeeper’s shoulders slumped downward — Argon could see barely-healed bite marks on the left one — and nodded. He knew the great creature Eveningwing mourned. Everyone enslaved by Crevan’s spell had felt it when Bloodfang the halfwolf perished.

  “But Eveningwing is a valuable spy,” Argon said, guessing what it was that had led the beastkeeper to his tower. “The King wants him healed. But as his wounds are not of the flesh, he seeks a diviner.”

  The beastkeeper nodded, and the lumps above his eyes dropped low.

  “I won’t hurt him,” Argon promised. “But it could take some time … I trust he’s been put into my charge?”

  The beastkeeper nodded again.

  “Excellent. I’ll let you know when I figure something out.”

  With a final grunt, the beastkeeper made his way back through the tower to the winding staircase — scattering the young mages in his wake. Argon closed the door behind him. Seeing Eveningwing brought it all back: he remembered the vision he’d had just moments before.

  There was trouble brewing in the plains, a boulder in the path that had to be removed … calm waters that needed to be unsettled. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, but Fate obviously had a plan — and Argon had learned long ago that it was best not to stand in her way.

  No, he would play his part.

  “I cannot raise the dead, little one,” he said as he toted the hawk to his scrying bowl. “I’m afraid that a life once lost, is lost forever. But, perhaps there is a way to make sure Bloodfang’s soul rests in peace. Of course … I speak of vengeance.”

  At the sound of this word, Eveningwing’s feathers came out of their ruffled state. They slicked down his back and flattened against his chest. His pupils sharpened into attentive dots. He was listening.

  “Yes, I know the man responsible for Bloodfang’s death. And what’s more — I know where he’s hiding.” Argon brought the hawk up to his eyes, and normally, he would have held his finger up for emphasis. But one look at Eveningwing’s lethally curved beak, and he thought better of it. “However, if I show you how to find him, you must promise to keep this between us. The King can’t know that I’ve sent you away, or he’ll call you right back. So … will you keep it our secret?”

  Eveningwing’s head bobbed down — in the same quick motion that he might have torn flesh from bone. And Argon knew he’d been right to keep his fingers out of reach.

  Though it was unlikely that Bloodfang’s executioner would be so fortunate.

  Chapter 10

  No Ordinary Killer

  Elena dragged her oars through the water slowly. She kept the rough shafts trapped against her palms, guiding the paddles in and out of the waves, coaxing the boat forward without so much as a splash.

  The ocean was particularly still that night — which meant they would have to be particularly quiet. Elena matched her breathing with the steady ocean wind. Her companion followed suit, though his breaths were slightly heavier than hers. The rumbling in his chest sounded like the far-off beat of waves striking rock: a constant, deadly sound — a sound she had come to hate.

  They rowed hard for Duke Reginald’s island castle — two shadows balanced atop the quiet sea. A thin layer of clouds veiled the sky. Pale light peeked out for a moment before the dark covered it again, as if even the moon couldn’t bear to watch their errand.

  Elena bristled against the wet warmth as Holthan exhaled across the back of her neck. She knew he was doing it on purpose. There was nothing he loved more than to watch her squirm. He’d told her this, once. And though she knew she shouldn’t give him anything to smirk about, she couldn’t help it. One look from him, and her blood would freeze against her bones. It always did.

  At last, the boat bumped softly against the island’s rocky shore. Holthan anchored them to the rungs of an iron ladder before he stood. He leapt from the boat and onto the highest rung — a move that would have toppled Elena and flipped the boat, had she not braced herself for his weight.

  “My lady?”

  Holthan’s hand appeared out of the shadows, but she ignored it. Instead, she pulled herself up along the slippery surface of rock, digging her boots and fingers into the crags until she popped up onto solid ground.

  “Your mind moves so quickly,” Holthan murmured as they crouched. His voice was slightly muffled behind his mask: a red scarf tied around the lower half of his face, with a black leather guard over his nose and mouth. His breath hissed as it passed through the slits in the guard. His dark eyes glinted beneath his hood.

  Elena wore a similar mask — which she hoped made the look she gave him all the more sinister. “Keep your mouth shut until our task is finished. Or I swear I’ll report you to the Countess.”

  Lines wreathed his eyes as he smirked, but he said nothing in reply. Elena glared at him before she turned her watch to the castle walls.

  Whoever had been in charge of defending the keep hadn’t done a very good job of it. The braziers were spread so far apart that they left a small patch of shadows between each one. Even the torches of the many pacing sentries couldn’t quite uncover them. While the lights might’ve been enough to thwart an army, they were no match for someone of Elena’s skills.

  She made a dash for the first shadowy patch — sprinting until she could turn and plant her back against the wall. Holthan materialized by her side just as the sentry crossed above them. They had to stand with their shoulders crammed together for the shadows to cover them both, and Holthan had to duck his head. Once the sentry passed, they moved to the next shadowy patch, then the next. It wasn’t long before they were standing with their backs to the westernmost wall.

  The open sea stretched out before them, a dark and grumbling beast. Elena arched her neck back and watched the orb of a sentry’s torch as it drifted overhead. The moment it passed, she nudged Holthan with her elbow.

  He swept out into the light and began clearing weeds from the face of a sizable rock — one that looked oddly out of place next to the uniform cut of the wall. Elena thought she could make out the arch of a passageway hidden behind it.

  She allowed herself a smirk. It was amazing what a few tankards of ale and a low-cut dress could buy. The merchant she’d met at the local tavern had been difficult to crack, at first: the solemn expression he wore made him almost impossible to read. But he seemed bitter about his lot, unappreciated and angry. The ale brought out his weaknesses, and all Elena had had to do was bat her eyes and listen.

  “Our high chancellor is a fraud. I know those votes were tampered with,” he’d stormed, after a particularly long drag from his tankard.

  “By the pirate captain?” Elena murmured. She watched his lips waver along their solemn line — a line that his drink was beginning to soften.

  “Yes. I’m sure of it.” His gaze moved to her mouth as he wiped ale from his neatly-trimmed beard. “I told the others that I should’ve been chancellor. The votes were just supposed to be a formality — the office was mine by right! But did they listen? No!”

  His fist slammed down upon the table. Elena reached across and wrapped her fingers about his wrist. She’d smiled sweetly as she felt his blood quicken its pace. “Then they’re nothing but fools, and you are the clever one.”

  He returned her smile with a clumsy one of his own. Then it changed quickly into a sneer. “Yes … yes, you’re right. They’ll get what they deserve. And it’s only a matter of time, really — if marauders could break into the castle once, they can do it again. Someone’s going to murder Colderoy in his bed, mark my —”

  “Tell me more about the castle,” Elena interrupted. “Why do you think it’ll be so easy for thieves to break in?”

  He smirked, and his once-sharp eyes fell hooded in spirits. �
�Because of the dungeon passages, my dear. The castle’s first owner had his builders carve out an escape route, in case the fortress was ever under siege. But Reginald didn’t think he needed it. He even tried to seal it up, but he did a sloppy job. Three strong men could move it easily.”

  And that was precisely the sort of information Elena had been waiting for. Once she got a few more details from him, it had been easy enough to lure him to a room upstairs — where she’d quickly clubbed him over the head.

  She’d taken all of his coin and his fine leather boots with her. When he woke, he would think a thief had swindled him. Of course, the truth was far more sinister.

  Now that they knew the castle’s weaknesses, one stone was all that stood between them and a pathway to the Duke. Holthan had the strength of three men even on his weakest day. As he wrapped his arms around the boulder, his muscles swelled like bags of wetted rice — which was probably why he preferred to keep the sleeves cut out of his black armor.

  The sword strapped to his back was nearly the length of an average man’s spear. Firelight glanced it as he bent to ready himself to pull, but the blackened hilt did not wink back.

  With a grunt and one swift motion, he rolled the stone free, turning it over on its side. Elena ducked behind him and slid into the passageway. She felt the hollow thud in her boots as Holthan allowed the stone to roll back into place.

  Wet moss made their passage slippery. Elena was able to slide her way down most of the tunnel, but Holthan moved more slowly. She reached the iron grate several breaths before he did, and she took a moment to look around.

  Fools.

  There wasn’t a single guard outside of the dungeon entrance. She stretched her neck in both directions, and when she was certain the hallway was empty, she waved Holthan forward.

  He wrenched the grate from its hinges. Little white crumbs of dust showered down on him as he set it carefully on the floor. Then he climbed free and slunk towards the door on the opposite end of the hallway — the one that led back into the main castle.