Before she could react, strong hands grabbed her elbows and yanked her arms painfully behind her. She gasped at the sudden attack and attempted to writhe out her assailant’s grip. She stamped a heel on the attacker’s toes.
Now it was his turn to gasp and jump, but his grip and twist on her arms did not let up.
She was shoved hard into the library door, smashing her forehead hard enough to see lights dance before her eyes.
“What are you doing skulking about here?” the attacker yelled, shoving her again and pinning her against the door. “Answer me!” he hissed in her ear.
She tasted blood from a split lip. She had no words in her. So close, she moaned only to herself. So close.
Suddenly the door at her face opened. The two tumbled past the threshold to land in a tangle of limbs at the foot of the younger scholar. She struggled to take advantage of the surprise and loose herself. But her attacker was no fool. As she fought and kicked, he took the assault with grunts and spats of swearing but kept his grip. Twisting savagely, she attempted to tear free but only succeeded in ripping her cloak. The dagger fell free and skittered across the stone floor. She shot a hand out toward it, but the scholar reached it first, retrieving the weapon.
“We have our thief!” the young Brother called out, triumphant.
With the dagger lost from her possession, she found her strength vanish with it. She was again pinned under the attacker’s weight and groaned in despair. So close . . .
She did not resist when she was wrenched from her belly to her back, still held tight by her attacker. Through a blur of tears, she saw who had captured her: his fiery red hair, his angry green eyes. The brother of the wit’ch. “Lord Joach,” she moaned.
Joach reached and pulled at the cloak’s hood. She tried feebly to stop him. No, not this, too.
Stronger, his fingers ripped back her hood, exposing her face for all to see. She stared back at him, tears on her cheeks. She saw his eyes grow wide as he recognized her. The anger in his face drained to pain. She closed her eyes against his hurt.
But she could not shut out the heartbreak in his voice. “Marta?”
AS THE MEETING dispersed, Elena left the great hall, followed closely by her eternal shadow, Er’ril. She felt the storm cloud brewing over her shoulder as he kept pace. She knew the plainsman wanted to vent his rage at her decision to go Gul’gotha, yet he remained silent, keeping his word to support her. But in some ways, this was even worse. His silence was brooding. The stiffness of his back and the white-knuckled grip on his sword hilt announced his dissent as loudly as words.
Once free of the crowds, she slowed so Er’ril could walk abreast of her. This matter had best be settled before the journey began. “Er’ril,” she said, “I must go to Gul’gotha.”
“I am your liegeman,” he answered dutifully. “You are free to pursue the path you believe best. I will follow you anywhere. So I’ve sworn.”
Elena sighed. “I do not make this decision rashly, Er’ril. If Tol’chuk is to succeed in his journey, if the Manticore Gate is to be discovered, he will need my power.”
“I understand your desire to help, to not sit idle. Even I—”
“It’s not just that.” Elena struggled to find the words to explain herself better. “Portents and signs all point to the east, to Gul’gotha: the scorpion in the stone, the spirit message from Tol’chuk’s father, the d’warf legend of the Try’sil’s return. I sense . . . I sense I must voyage there. For too long, the lands of Gul’gotha have been tainted by the Dark Lord. If we ever hope to free our land, theirs must be freed, too.” She stopped Er’ril with a touch and turned to him. “Can you understand this? Support this? Not just from your oath bond as liegeman, but as a . . . friend.”
The plainsman’s hard stance slowly melted. He lowered his head with a sigh. “After we talked with the d’warves, I knew you’d make this decision. But I hoped otherwise.”
“I’m sorry—”
“No, I spent the time before the meeting pondering what the d’warves said . . . what you said. Perhaps a journey to Gul’gotha is not such folly. It is from those distant lands that the Black Heart himself arose. Perhaps once there, we can learn more of the Gul’gothal lord. Even after five centuries, we know so little about the tyrant’s true nature. And where but his own birthplace could we perhaps discover more, maybe even discern a weakness in his armor?”
Elena felt her heart lighten with his words. His support of her decision lifted the burden from her lone shoulders. “So you agree with my going?”
He lifted his face; his eyes were full of agony. “I wish I could lock you away and keep you from pursuing such a dangerous path.” He turned away. “But in my heart, I know there is no safe place anywhere any longer. Not Gul’gotha, not here.”
Elena stared at the plainsman, hesitant, then reached and took his hand. “Yes, there is, Er’ril. There is one place where I am forever safe.”
He glanced to her hand and did not pull away. “Where is that?” His voice was hushed, almost choked. “Tell me and I’ll take you there.”
“No need.” She gently squeezed his hand and leaned in closer to him. “I’m already there.”
He tensed with her words. Had she spoken too boldly, shown her heart too clearly? He would not meet her eyes—but neither did he free his hand. “Elena . . .” he whispered. “I . . . I . . .”
A commotion ahead drew their attention forward. Elena felt Er’ril’s fingers slip from hers as Joach and a robed scholar stalked around the next corner. They were followed by two guards hauling a trussed-up girl.
Joach’s eyes widened as he spotted them, and he hurried forward. “We’ve found your attacker,” he said, breathless. He nodded toward the guards.
“What?” Er’ril asked, shocked, moving forward to protect Elena.
Joach lifted his hands, revealing the long, black dagger. “She tried to steal it and was caught.” He stepped aside so Elena could see her attacker.
The girl was thrust roughly forward, falling to her knees. She made no sound as she struck the hard stone. She just hung her head, hair draping her face. Her clothes, a cloak over loose shirt and leggings, were torn to rags. Clearly she had been roughly searched by the guards, her pockets ripped and rifled through.
“She had posed as a scullion,” Joach explained, voice tight.
“And that is not all,” the scholar, an old man in a rough-spun umber robe, said. Elena recognized him as Brother Ryn, caretaker of the castle’s library. He moved toward the girl and reached to her nape. “Most interesting . . . most interesting . . . I thought them disbanded long ago and vanished.”
“Brother Ryn, what is it?” Er’ril asked.
“Something we found when we searched her.” The elderly Brother reached and gently brushed the girl’s tawny hair back from behind an ear. “Do you know this symbol, Er’ril?”
Er’ril moved nearer, and Elena followed. He bent closer as Elena peered over his shoulder. Behind the girl’s ear was a tiny tattoo: a small dagger entwined by a snake. “A guild mark . . . The Assassins’ Guild,” Er’ril said, straightening with a frown.
“Like Cassa Dar?” Elena asked, remembering a similar tattoo hidden behind the ear of the swamp wit’ch. “But I thought she said her guild ended with the fall of Castle Drakk, their stronghold.”
“It seems some of the seeds cast after the fall found fertile soil to grow again,” Er’ril said sourly. “But why attack you?”
Elena knelt before the girl and reached a hand to her attacker’s chin. She lifted the girl’s face. Elena was immediately struck by two things: the deep indigo hue to her eyes and the hopelessness found therein. “Who sent you?” Elena asked softly.
The woman stared back, silent.
“She refuses to speak,” Joach said. “We’ve asked the same of her already.”
From the bruise on the girl’s cheek and her split lip, the first interrogation had been none too gentle. Elena frowned. She sensed no enmity from the girl, only a
profound despair. Narrowing her eyes, Elena continued quietly. “What is your name? Surely that is not forbidden for you to disclose.”
Confusion crept into the other’s face.
Joach interrupted. “Her name is Marta.”
Elena glanced up to her brother, but a meek voice drew her back to the roped girl. “No, my true name is Kesla.”
“Kesla?” Elena asked.
The girl nodded and spoke rapidly, pleading. “I beg that you let me go. Return my dagger, and I will vanish from these shores forever.”
Er’ril snorted harshly. “Not likely, assassin. It’s into our dungeons you’ll be vanishing.”
Kesla ignored the plainsman, keeping her eyes on Elena. “I meant you no harm . . . at least, no lasting harm. My war is not with you.”
“Then who is it with?”
The girl studied the stones at her knees and mumbled. “The master of the guild has sworn my tongue against speaking of such matters.”
Elena sighed and stood. “My tower is near. Perhaps we should continue this discussion in my chambers.”
“I see no reason to continue it at all,” Er’ril countered. “Leave her to the dungeons. We’ve much planning ahead this day if we are to be ready in time.”
Elena saw Joach help the prisoner to her feet. Kesla glanced up at Joach and quickly away. Joach swallowed hard and left her to the guards. Elena sensed more to the story between them than had been spoken aloud. “I would still like to question her further,” Elena said to Er’ril, stepping around him to lead the way back to her tower.
Er’ril grumbled something under his breath but followed. The others shadowed after them. Once the tower was reached, Brother Ryn excused himself to return to his library, and the remaining group continued the long climb in silence.
Elena rubbed her right hand with her left as she led the way. She remembered the intense pain as the magick was wrenched from her flesh. What manner of assault had that been? She pondered the mystery. Another member of the Assassins’ Guild, Cassa Dar, had once strangled her power with a spellcast swamp weed, luring Elena into the bogs and swamps of the Drowned Lands for a cure. But what did the guild want with her now? Before she left this coast, she needed an answer.
At last, they reached the top of the long stairs. A pair of posted guards snapped to stiff attention, spears in hand at her appearance. She nodded to them; one of the pair stepped aside and opened the thick iron-and-oak door.
Elena entered first and waved for Er’ril to light the lamps, while Joach started a fire in the hearth. At the doorway, Elena took the prisoner by the elbow. “I will take her from here,” she said to the guards. “You may return to your duties.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the leader bowed his head and backed away. Elena closed the door, then led Kesla to a chair by the fire that Joach had quickly stoked.
Once all were settled, Er’ril stood to the left of the girl’s chair, hand on his sword hilt, wearing a deep frown. Nearby, Joach leaned on the mantel, a hearth iron in hand. He stared into the fire.
Elena knelt by Kesla’s chair. “Tell us about yourself. Where do you come from?”
The girl glanced down and away.
“She comes from a village in the Southern Wastes,” Joach answered, then added more bitterly, “unless that was a lie, too.”
“It was no lie,” Kesla said, her voice heated.
Elena, her brows pinched together, glanced up to Er’ril. The Southern Wastes? Could this be another sign pointing toward one of the gates in the far south?
Er’ril guessed the questions in her eyes and shrugged.
The girl spoke again, her words almost a moan of despair. “I must have the nightglass dagger.”
Elena turned. “Why? If you meant us no harm, then why can’t you tell us your need for it?”
“My oath . . . It is forbidden . . .”
Elena sighed and leaned back on her heels as she knelt. She thought in silence for a few moments.
“If you want any answers from her,” Er’ril said, “there are many tools of torture in the dungeons, left over from the time of the Dark Lord’s armies.”
Shocked, Elena glanced up at Er’ril. But from behind the girl’s shoulder, he gave his head a slight shake. He had no intention of ever using such devices, but the prisoner did not know this.
Elena calmed her reaction and spoke more slowly, taking the more passive role. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Er’ril . . . at least not yet.”
Kesla stiffened in her seat at their words.
“Now, Kesla,” Elena began, “though we mean you no true harm, we can’t ignore this attack upon us. You must understand this.”
The girl’s lips drew taut.
“Let’s start again. If you can’t tell us the reason for this assault, then tell us about yourself. How did you come to be in the Assassins’ Guild? Where were you trained?”
Kesla lowered her head. “I don’t know how I came to Alcazar, the sandstone citadel of the guild. I was told the master found me ten winters ago, just a small child lost in the deserts of the Wastes, but I don’t know if this was the truth or not.”
Er’ril spoke up, his voice brittle with feigned anger. “And what of your designation? Your tattoo? The assassin’s dagger wrapped by a snake.”
Elena recalled Cassa Dar’s tattoo: a dagger wrapped in nightshade vine. It had marked her as an assassin who specialized in poisons.
Kesla spoke meekly. “I was trained in the arts of hidden moves: to enter unseen, to leave undetected. The snake is an assassin’s symbol of stealth.”
“Just a thief, in other words.” Er’ril snorted derisively.
Kesla jerked in her bonds, twisting to stare at Er’ril. “I am no common thief! I trained for ten winters in the assassin’s methods.”
“But have you ever killed?” Er’ril asked with clear scorn.
Kesla sank back around. “A bloody hand does not make an assassin.”
Er’ril glanced over the top of Kesla’s head at Elena. He nodded for her to continue again.
Elena took a more conciliatory tone. “So you came all the way from Alcazar in the Southern Wastes, disguised yourself as a scullion maid, and slipped your way past the many armies guarding this island. Impressive. You must have been trained well.”
“I was,” she said proudly. “Master Belgan is one of the finest guild members.”
“And so, like a snake, you slipped into our midst undetected, waiting for the proper moment.”
Kesla nodded with Elena’s words.
Er’ril spoke again, almost yelling. “And then when the moment was ripe, you took your dagger and brutally stabbed it into Elena’s mark, ripping away her power, torturing her!”
Kesla shied from his words. “I . . . I did not think . . . I didn’t mean . . .” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Don’t mind Er’ril,” Elena said, and placed a hand on Kesla’s knee. “You had some dire need. That is clear. If you would explain this need, maybe we could help.”
Sniffing back tears, Kesla glanced to Elena’s hand. “I . . . I cannot.”
Elena whispered now. “Is your need so much less than your oath? If you broke your word but gained your desire, would this price be too steep?”
Kesla’s eyes rose to meet Elena’s. Hesitation and desire were mixed in the girl’s expression. “If . . . if I told you, would you let me have the dagger and leave this island?”
“If your goal is pure, I would consider it.”
Kesla slumped in her seat. When she spoke next, her words were a pained whisper. “I need the dagger to slay a monster.”
Elena frowned and glanced to Er’ril. With a nod, he encouraged Elena to continue on her own. “What monster?” she asked.
Kesla sank deeper into her chair, drawing inward. “A foul beast that has taken roost in the ancient Ruins of Tular.”
Elena clenched her fist at the mention of the Southwall’s ancient fortress. “Tular?” she encouraged. “At the northern edge of
the Wastes?”
“Yes. From the decaying ruins, a corruption spread into our sands, poisoning water and livestock. Hundreds began to die of sickness and famine.”
“And you believe this pestilence came from this beast?”
Kesla nodded. “A winged demon of pale flesh came to a village one night. He demanded a tithing from the many desert tribes. Either the payment must be made, or he promised the corruption from the beast would continue to spread until the entire Wastes were consumed.” Kesla glanced up at Elena, then away again. Her voice cracked. “Th-the people had no choice. At each full moon, the tithe had to be sent to the Ruins of Tular, to slake the beast’s lust, or certain doom would befall all of them.”
“What was this price?” Elena asked.
Kesla shook her head; a sob choked from her throat.
“Tell us so we might understand.”
“It was a tithe . . . a tithe of children.”
“What?” Elena could not stop her gasped outburst.
Kesla rocked slightly in her seat. “Thirty children with each moon, one for each day of the passing cycle.”
“Sweet Mother,” Joach mumbled by the hearth. He finally tore his gaze from the fire.
“One day,” Kesla said, “a group of village elders came to Alcazar, loaded with gold and jewels, begging for the help of the guild to slay the beast. Of course, once Master Belgan heard the story, he refused them.”
Er’ril snorted again. “Just like a true assassin. That bunch are cowards at heart, slinking in the dark.”
Kesla frowned angrily. “No, you don’t understand. He refused their gold, but accepted their challenge. He took only one item from those who came.”
“And what was that?” Joach asked.
Kesla turned to Elena’s brother. She nodded to his belt where the nightglass dagger hung. “It is a treasure equal to all the other wealth offered. But Master Belgan did not accept the dagger for its worth. One of the village elders was a shaman. He said, according to his scrying bones, only this dagger could slay the beast.”