Savant now recalled lessons about the sunstones, about bright lights and white-haired strangers. He had heard all of it while studying the War of the Races. He should have thought of it sooner, but he had never heard of a Harpy traveling so close to the Hive. This stranger was a child of Wind and Light, one of the First Race and a sworn enemy of the Dark God.
And a sunstone was not just a pretty pebble. It was a dangerous magical weapon used for hunting and killing the Dark God's children.
“Where are you?” Savant roared, anger rushing through him like hot fire. He could hear scuffling in the underbrush and a dull moan. Bug's voice. He followed it. His vision was beginning to clear and he blinked his eyes repeatedly. He could now make out vague shadows and outlines, imprints of leaves and branches.
There, to his left. The Harpy!
He lunged again, knife plunging, and this time hit flesh. He sank the dagger deep into the leg of the Harpy. The man let out a cry of pain and outrage, then whirled, backhanding Savant across the face. The blow was fierce and Savant stumbled backwards again, still sensitive to the light, hardly able to focus his eyes.
The sunstone flashed again. It felt like having his face thrust in a fire. He cried out, throwing up an arm to shield himself, dropping his dagger. The ground tipped—his head swam.
He tried desperately to recover, to open and focus his eyes. He could see Bug—or at least he thought it was Bug—scrambling through the bushes, biting and scratching at her captor. She was screaming in pain, smoke rising from her hand. The sunstone was burning through her skin and into her flesh, where Savant knew it would fester. The light would bind her limbs and steal her senses. Eventually, it would burn out her eyes.
He was overwhelmed. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins; his head pounded. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to follow them through the forest, tried to listen, but his ears were consumed by an intense ringing. The ground kept tilting beneath him.
He fell to his knees, curling up in pain.
The light grew and grew...and then faded....
* * *
An hour later, he came to. He hadn't expected to be still alive.
The forest was empty. After a brief, desperate search, he uncovered the Named weapons, the whip and the dagger. That eased some of his tension, but he was still worried about Bug. Assassins do not worry. But he could not quell the sense of guilt and panic.
A few scuffs marred the dirt, but besides that, there was no sign of Bug or the white-haired stranger. He searched for a trail and found a few white feathers littered in the underbrush, but they led to nowhere. No path, no evidence. Upon examining the feathers, Savant wasn't surprised. Harpies could fly. How did one follow the air?
There was nothing more he could do. He took the Named weapons back to the shrine, mounting them carefully on the wall. His ears were still ringing, his eyes sensitive. In the dark, cool recesses of the cavern, he knelt by the green water and plunged his head into its cold depths, allowing the current to run through his hair. The peaceful shadows slowly permeated his mind, calming his heart, soothing his skin.
Finally he sat back, taking deep, moist breaths. He felt numb and uncertain. Should he address the counsel of the Grandmasters? If he told them about the Harpy in the woods, they might gather a team of huntsmen and track down Bug, rescue her....
Or perhaps not. The Grandmasters were not warm or understanding. They would ask what he had been doing in the forest. Ask about the Named weapons. About the nature of his friendship with Bug.
And he would be severely punished for using the weapons. They might disqualify him from the Naming—perhaps permanently.
It chilled him. The thought of waiting another year for the Viper left him sick and uneasy, if they even allowed him to compete. Perhaps his actions would render him unworthy of the title. Another Savant could take his place. Cerastes had other students to compete for his Name.
Cerastes. He let out a slow breath. He couldn't go to all of the Grandmasters about this, but perhaps he could speak to his own. The bond between student and teacher was built on loyalty and unquestionable trust. Cerastes would know what to do.
It took a half-hour to return to the beach, a stretch of sand on the outskirts of the colony. He found his Grandmaster easily. Cerastes sat above an alcove of rock that sank down into the ocean, like the mouth of a gaping giant. Ten foot swells crashed against the rocks—the giant's breath. His teacher was deep in meditation, perfectly still, almost invisible against the dark rock.
Cerastes opened his eyes, aware of his student's presence. “You are late,” he said. “In four years, you have never been late for our training. What happened?”
Savant fell upon his knees before the Grandmaster, propping his hands against his legs, bowing his head. “Master,” he began. He had rehearsed the words, but they failed him now. His mouth grew dry. “There has been...an accident....”
“Assassins do not have accidents,” his Master replied automatically. Then his brow furrowed. Cerastes was far older than his student, well past his prime, and yet his forehead was still smooth, his black hair long and sleek down to his waist. “What happened?”
Savant hesitated only for a moment, then he rushed through the story, explaining the morning's events. He kept his voice soft, his tone quiet. Those of the Hive had ears everywhere.
When he finished, Cerastes lowered his head in thought. He remained silent for a long stretch of time. Savant almost relaxed, lulled by the rush of the ocean and the caw of gulls.
“I know the female you speak of,” he finally said. “She was Grandmaster Natrix' student. She was weak.”
“We must save her.”
“She was weak.”
Savant looked up sharply, unable to hide the surprise on his face. He stared at the Grandmaster for a long moment, countless words on his lips, tangling his thoughts. He shook his head to clear it. “But, she is of the Hive.”
“You are not listening, Savant.” Cerastes spoke slowly and clearly. “You are my best student. The best I have seen in twenty years. Your logic is as keen as your blade.”
Savant waited, forcing himself to listen, barely contained.
The Grandmaster carried on at a leisurely pace. “Harpies are not weak. Their very nature, in fact, is designed to destroy us. Their Light burns our eyes, their Voice binds our limbs. Does it make sense for the Hive to send full-fledged assassins—some of whom will be killed, I assure you—to rescue a weak child?”
Savant felt anger spark to life. It rushed up from his stomach, burning his throat like molten rock. “But....”
“You were friends with this girl?” Cerastes' stare pierced him. Savant lowered his eyes. Friends were not encouraged in the Hive. They were tolerated, perhaps, but only as a thing of childhood. He was too old for such sentiment, now—a friend was a weakness, a crack in one's armor. “No, Grandmaster.”
“Then give me one reason why we should save her.” Cerastes' words were unexpectedly direct.
Savant looked up and opened his mouth. Paused. He had no reason.
The Grandmaster nodded. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. His green eyes glinted coldly in the afternoon light. “This is the way of the Hive, savant,” he murmured. “Now let me ask you a far more important question. Are you sure that you are ready to take a Name?”
Savant gazed at his Master, still reeling from the day's events. “Yes,” he finally said.
“Because your weakness is most apparent right now.”
The words shut him down. Savant realized what he was risking; what his Grandmaster was threatening. He locked his jaw, wiped his expression and cleared his thoughts. He let out a short, tense breath. “It was an unexpected morning,” he said abruptly.
The Grandmaster nodded again. “Understandably. Take a run on the beach. Clear your mind for the Naming.”
Savant bowed, his head touching the rock, then stood up. He reminded himself that he was lucky. Cerastes was far more understanding than some,
and he was true to the ways of the Hive.
He climbed to his feet and turned, leaping nimbly across the slippery rocks.
Cerastes called from the peak of the giant's mouth. “You did not fail her, savant,” he said, and his student turned briefly, catching his eye. “Remember. She was weak.”
CHAPTER ONE
VOLCRIAN STOOD OUTSIDE the shop and gazed at the faded blue sign. A mixture of fish oil and salt water mingled in his nose; it was a scent that brought back painfully clear memories.
It seemed like only yesterday when he and his brother had stood before the very same shop. They had been mere children then, sixteen years of age, with the world at their feet. The year before, their father had died of a chronic illness, leaving them orphaned. The two brothers had grown inseparably close, relying on each other to survive. They had lived like that through their youth, far into adulthood.
But his brother had been dead now for three years. That haunted him like a sickness, plagued his thoughts, stole his sleep. He couldn't forget his brother's face, nor that of the killer.
Volcrian flexed his left hand, a crippled knot of twisted fingers and curling tendons, maimed the day Etienne had died.
That's why I'm here, is it not? he thought with a small smile. Yes, so many years ago, he and his brother had run across a struggling merchant who was trying to sell fish. The fishmonger had begged them for money, for any sort of help. Etienne had worked a simple spell, a mixture of blood and fish eggs. He had anointed each barrel of fish, then the threshold of the door, the frames of the windows. The customers would crave the man's stock, feeling rejuvenated after eating it.
They had done the job in return for a favor. A favor that Volcrian had not yet collected.
The population of the docks passed by him quickly, hunched against the low clouds and stiff wind. The air was heavy with moisture, though it had yet to rain. Behind him, miles upon miles of moored ships stretched across the shoreline, from passenger vessels to fishing boats to giant freighters. Delbar was a bustling city, full of eager merchants and cunning thieves. Yet no one approached the door.
Volcrian had to wonder at that. Blood magic had a price. There was a balance to it—one couldn't just take and take. Eventually, one would have to give back. Usually the mage suffered the consequences, falling ill for days, drawing too much blood to recover, his life force drained.
But Etienne had been young, his magic fierce and unfettered. It took years for a Wolfy mage to build up discipline and control over his spells. Volcrian eyed the sign dubiously. Who knew what waited beyond the storefront?
“Are we going to stand out here all day?” came a woman's voice to his left, slightly slurred, as though her lips were numb. “I may be dead, but I'm still freezing.”
Volcrian grinned at the irony. “A cold corpse,” he murmured. “Quaint.”
The priestess rolled her eyes. They slid too far back into her head, almost full white. It took her a moment to refocus them, the eyeballs spinning lazily about, clouded by death.
Volcrian watched in fascination. She had taken on a kind of beauty these past weeks since he had killed her on the steps of the Temple of the West Wind. Her skin had turned gray and ashen; her lips were swollen and bloated, a dark purple. Her hair had turned white and was beginning to thin. Between the patches of missing hair, he could glimpse the curve of a perfectly smooth head.
She was bundled in a thick brown cloak several sizes too big, the hood shoved down over her head. His own silver hair and pointed ears drew enough looks. He didn't need people noticing a walking corpse in tow.
With a shrug, Volcrian reached for the old, weathered door. It creaked as he opened it, protesting the movement.
Inside, the store was small, cramped, and full of the overpowering stench of rotten fish. Something else lingered in the air, tainting the walls, sickly sweet. The old, old spice of magic. Volcrian's nose recognized it immediately, although he knew no human could detect the smell. He instinctively grimaced. The scent shouldn't be this strong, this sour. Something had gone wrong with the spell. Not entirely surprising.
“Lovely,” the dead priestess muttered, her eyes wandering haphazardly around the room.
“Almost as lovely as you, my dear,” Volcrian murmured back.
Something shifted in the gloom of the shop, hidden amongst the crates and barrels of fish. His eyes adjusted to the light, then landed on a stooped figure in the corner.
"Malcolm?" he said into the darkness, and the figure flinched as though struck. Volcrian took a step forward, peering into the shadows, ears twitching. He detected the faintest creak of floorboards as the creature within shifted. “Come out,” he ordered.
There was a croaky laugh from the depths of the room. The figure scuttled between two boxes, attempting to hide. Then a voice muttered, "A Wolfy, is it? Your kind are not common.”
Volcrian's eyes narrowed. Yes, finding a Wolfy was rare indeed. It was sad to think that humans, the weakest of the races, were now in control. The other races had all but perished—including his own.
“It's been years since I was last here.” Volcrian addressed the shadows. He sniffed the stagnant air again, wrinkling his nose. “I take it you remember.”
That odd croak answered him from the fish crates. “Oh, how could I forget?” he grumbled.
The mage shuddered despite himself. The voice that spoke was not natural. The vocal cords were warped, twisted, struggling to pronounce.
"At least twenty years I've been waiting," the voice snarled. “Etienne, isn't it?"
Volcrian straightened up. Etienne's name was far too pure to be tainted by that voice. Sliding through those dirty lips, the name sounded more like a curse, like sodden wood dropping on the floor.
He glared into the shadows, his temper piqued. He strode deeper into the room, shrugging through the tendrils of magic as though they were cobwebs.
“Etienne is dead,” he said calmly, despite the anger in his gaze. “I am Volcrian.”
“Ah, yes. The elder brother. But no different. Still a Wolfy. Still a mage.” The shadowy figure spit on the floor before Volcrian's feet, a gob of yellow phlegm that looked toxic. For a moment, the mage turned livid. The atmosphere of the room, so drenched with magic, began to shift.
The figure moved away from him, scuttling between boxes, remaining half-hidden.
“Show yourself,” Volcrian called. The magic squirmed, contracting. Although it had been years, the spell still responded to his presence. Its power was still alive.
The storekeeper had no choice. Abruptly, Malcolm stepped from between the boxes, pausing in the hazy light from a window.
Volcrian's lips twisted in disgust.
Before him stood something that might have once been a man. Now it seemed more of a toad. Hunched double, his skin was wrinkly and loose, clinging to the bone like a wet curtain. His ears were large and dangling, his hair all but gone, and his eyes...large, blind disks in a ruined face.
The man was aging almost three times as fast as normal, his life drained by the bloodspell.
Volcrian recognized the side effects of amateur magic. He and Etienne had caused much damage when they were younger, before they discovered their great-grandfather's journal. Volcrian shared a sideways glance with the priestess. She, too, had been changed by magic. Yet for all of her swollen, blue-tinted skin, she still held a semblance of beauty, something ethereal, vaguely human.
This man, on the other hand, was like a slimy animal dragged from the ocean.
“What do you want, Wolfy?" the creature bit out. "I take it you have not come to lift my curse. Name your purpose and leave so I'll never have to look at you again."
“Gladly,” Volcrian replied. He wanted to leave the shop as quickly as possible. “I am looking for a group of travelers: an assassin, a Wolfy mercenary, and a girl. Have you heard any news on the docks? Anything out of the ordinary?”
The man muttered to himself in thought, croaking and warbling. “A gang of Dracians stole a l
arge seafaring vessel about two weeks ago,” he said. “Word had it that a Wolfy was with them. Big he was, almost seven feet tall.”
Volcrian nodded. He had noted a large population of Dracians in the city, another one of the magical races living side-by-side with the oblivious humans. But a giant Wolfy was exactly what he was looking for.
The Wolfy race was split into two factions—the mages and the mercenaries. All of the mages were short, effeminate, and silver-haired. The mercenaries were robust warriors, broad as an oak and tall as a bear. The only commonalities between them were their pointed ears and sharp teeth. The mercenaries could not use magic. In that respect, they were as useless as humans.
“Do you know their destination?” he asked smoothly.
The creature rolled its caving shoulders. “No,” he said bluntly. “But there's a mapmaker on Port Street. He might know. I'll warn ye, though,” he held up a finger. Volcrian noted the webbed skin. “He's a bit batty.”
A batty mapmaker? This, from a frog-man? It almost made Volcrian smile.
“Is that all?” Malcolm asked, a hint of relief in his voice.
“I have need of a ship,” Volcrian said, his voice ponderous, distracted by this new information. What was the assassin up to now? Fleeing overseas? “And a crew.”
The fish-seller grunted, almost a laugh. “You want my ship? Can't fish without a ship....”
“That is none of my concern,” Volcrian snapped. He refocused on Malcolm and took a threatening step forward. “I am hunting a deadly assassin and time is of the essence. If you will not give me your ship then I will take it.”
The man recoiled from the mage, muttering a stream of garbled croaks. Then he limped back into the shadows, attempting to hide behind another box. Volcrian followed after him, walking steadily through the cluttered room.
“And if I refuse?” Malcolm finally grunted.