He turned, lightheaded. “Yes, master?”
Maunyn frowned at his strangeness. “Take this as well.” Maunyn handed him a tiny pouch. “Read the glyph in private. Take care with the vial.”
Ren took the pouch. Inside was a glass ampule.
“I have my own… potions… milord,” he said.
Maunyn glanced at him, irritated. “This one is better. Made especially for the target. It won’t kill anyone but him.”
Ren stared unbelievingly at the pouch.
“Take care of it by the next dawning, Ren,” Maunyn said over his shoulder. The next goddess-dawning was three days away. “Do not fail me.”
Ren bowed and left the warehouse, new vigor in his limbs, purposeful, pushing through the throng toward Halkamas. What kind of poison could kill a specific person? The ampule tempted him, but if he damaged it….
He swallowed hard and set the idea aside as the east gate loomed ahead.
He’d never been to the citadel. Finally! Finally, he was becoming the thing he needed to be. He pushed aside all his failures and mistakes—no point regretting them now when he was so close to setting his foot on the path to an endless life.
Mine will be the cycles, he thought with a grin.
He entered the east gate, head high. No one stopped him or questioned why he had entered. He bore a mantle with Ilor’Hosmyr’s weave and that was enough.
From now on, the crater would become his playground.
Still, there were threats and dangers. He was at a disadvantage within the kith bowl. Every inch of the place seemed imbued with enchantments or plated with glyphs. Knights patrolled, and much worse. Assassins, warriors of pure shadow, defended their house’s territory. He’d not seen a Dark since that time down south, but he knew they lurked there. So much danger! The folk in the east valley were clamoring for justice for Lor’Benthrae, even though it was a south valley house pledged to the second high house, Ilor’Zauhune. In fact, this apparent Naukvyrae attack on a faithful house had roused all four valleys.
His spirit sagged. The Naukvyrae would seek retribution. This was bad propaganda for them. They were the faithful, not random murderers and thieves. He rubbed the pommel of his black-stained dagger. He’d be no match for a Dark. He ducked into an alley and peeked around the corner. A shadow rippled, undulating with power he’d not seen before. Then the shadow shifted like a flock of swallows, darting in all directions. It was searching for him!
A Dark! It must be. Goddess above, they’d found him.
Sprinting away, he flung himself from shadow to shadow. It was still early. Most crater-folk were abed. This was the assassin’s hour, but he too was an assassin… of sorts. Not that he’d ever killed anyone important. Nomads and border folk didn’t count. They were easy pickings.
His chest twinged at the memory of those poor sods sent to clean up the arena, and the waiter at the Rilanik. No one had even mentioned he was missing yet. At the Rilanik, the servants were people with house badges. Was his house keeping it secret to hide their weakness? One less knight or squire to bolster their power. In the valleys, they cared less for hiding; they knew they were weak. Their power lay in clamoring and upsetting trade.
His heart caught in his throat as something skidded behind him. The street was empty. He’d made sure of it. Running now, bouncing between shadows, he turned into an alley and didn’t stop until he reached the villa with the secret trapdoor.
If anyone dared follow, his ribs would meet Ren’s daggers.
40
There!
The voice in the bracer spoke to Taul’s mind. A tingling heat spread from his arm to his brain stem. The eldest voice had taken charge of guiding him. The others simmered behind it, lending Taul gentler guidance to perfect his movements. This was the best way to learn, he thought. This is how my people once did things. It seemed natural. Hadn’t the orchard taught him similarly?
There!
The bracer’s voice insisted until Taul was facing the tenuous trail. It had taken him time to sort out what was common: flailing Dark tendrils versus ones that were in use. It was a strange world; one he’d nearly forgotten. In the groves, the Dark mingled with the living force of the plants and took on a unique form. Here in the crater, there was more kith than living matter; tendrils reached up to the sky, a choking lattice of power hidden a hair's breadth from normal vision. The previous owners of the assassin’s tools must know them with their own eyes, so accustomed to that side of Mornae experience.
Still, his heart throbbed in his throat from fear and excitement. The devices didn’t care about his feelings. They were at work again, those ancient minds summoned forth to aid their house once more, and they urged him on.
It seemed strange that Lor’Toshtolin, a quiet, peaceful house dedicated to growing brandy pears, could have such a heritage. We are not what we once were, his grandmother had always said. He wondered if a secret assassin had awaited her command. How long had it been since someone last wore the bracer? Who had been the assassin’s last target? When had he put the devices away and given up that work? Only the matron’s journals would tell if anyone even knew. House assassins left no trace of their activity, in life or death.
The man he followed must not be aware of the trail behind him, a hazy drift of cosmic dark. He didn’t have time to worry about his own trail. The trinkets filled him with confidence.
They will look in the shadow and not find you, they said in unison.
The bracer instructed him: where to place his feet, where to push off, which strand of Dark to adhere to.
Leap!
Taul vaulted over a villa wall, grimacing as the security glyph poked and prodded. He alighted on the ground, tipped, and bounced forward like an inflated bladder. The devices screeched within his head, rattling him, burning with frustration at his ineptitude.
I’m a tender, he thought, hoping they’d understand. He grasped at the razor thin grooves between the stone pavers and righted himself. The villa appeared unused. Strange, that. So many wanted to live in the crater, but here an ample villa sat empty. Pressed by his secret companions, he bounded through the door his target had used and down into a cellar.
Be careful!
Again, they railed within him. In each shadow, Taul imagined a menacing figure lunging at him.
Prepare yourself, his instructor said.
How long had it been since Taul used a dagger? He’d trained with one, of course. All knights of Isilmyr do, but he’d only ever sparred. He’d not been one for serious tournaments. His dagger was an ornament, a requirement of his station, because he was a target. All prime consorts were.
I’ll do better from now on, he thought to himself and to his instructors. The dagger slipped from its sheath and warmed. It neared Nishmur quality but was crafted by Hosmyr smiths who’d been trying for centuries to replicate the recipe. He thought it too expensive to buy a real Nishmur. Now he thought otherwise.
He paused in a shadow to calm himself. The rogue’s trail wisped and dissipated. At the base of a wall, there was an entrance to a rectangular chute. He’d have to crawl through, and that would be the most opportune moment to kill him.
Look first! Project yourself, the bracer seemed to say. Use the strands—see through them! Extend yourself!
