Chapter 2

  Enura's Fate

  The true Lady Enura was rotting on the floor of her bed chamber thousands of spans away. Her handmaiden’s dead body was within arm’s reach.

  With windows left open to the humidity of the swamp, both were already beginning to smell. Corpse flies picked at their delicate features, which had collapsed without blood flow. They grayed with the surface decay of skin oils. The blood of the dead had attracted birds, which bit pieces off every time they fluttered into the house through an open window. àlvar flesh was too bitter for most carrion eaters. Only starving gorecrows risked it.

  Enura’s robes were caked with browned blood at the breast. The serrated knife of her murder had been left behind. Hundreds of flies clung to its hilt; the leather wrappings were rotting too. That blade had been responsible for the gash on the handmaid’s throat. Maggots writhed within the aging wound.

  The bedchamber door slammed open. Flies and gorecrows alighted.

  A kerotera fell into the chamber, arm clutching her gut, cheeks nearly as colorless as those of the dead. Rivoras an Danoras gave a horrible moan at the sight of Lady Enura’s body.

  She had been meant to protect Enura.

  “No. No...”

  For a week, she had sought strength from drinking her own tears and chewing fistfuls of grass so she could drag herself, length by length, up the manse’s mujan and find her charge. She had been left for dead on the edge of the swamp. She had nearly died. But there had been nobody else left on the property. Nobody to tell her if Lady Enura survived.

  There was another time Rivor would have been relieved to be alone at the manse. She could never let down her guard; she could never unbind her breasts, strip to her skin, and bask in the Light she so craved to absorb.

  If only the quiet had meant peace.

  If only...

  Failure and grief struck her at once. She sank to her knees at Enura’s side.

  “No...”

  It felt as though this great crime could be undone if only Rivor refused it loudly enough, fiercely enough, with the strength of her entire voi. But she cried so much that the last moisture exited her body through her tear ducts, and Lady Enura did not move again. Rivor could have vomited her own guts if only it were willing to unmoor from within her ribs.

  Enura was gone, and it was Rivor’s failure.

  When she died, Lady Enura had been snacking on slo bread. A stale, hardened slice was near her body. There was also a glass of wine, miraculously unspilled. Its surface was covered in dead flies.

  Rivor drank the vinegary wine, flies and all, and soaked the slo bread scraps in the last drops. Her dry mouth managed to chew it enough to swallow.

  It was not much, but it gave her strength to stand up and draw her dagger. She held its blade into a shaft of dusty light. It was not an ornate dagger, nor a particularly expensive one, but it was well-made. Rivor kept its edge sharp. It could kill anything that breathed.

  “One oath failed,” she rasped. “One oath remains.” An oath of vengeance. The promise to slay Enura’s slayer.

  * * *

  Vinbor an Vindalor took the so-called Lady Enura away from the fête with all the urgency of a true kerotera. But he was not a kerotera, and the doe at his side was not actually Lady Enura of House Vulasir.

  As soon as they were out of the courtyard, Vinbor flashed a grin at her. “What do you think, Neen?” he asked.

  She took a quick step in the shadow of a pillar and lifted her hand to look at the blood staining her palm. Until a few moments earlier, she had been concealing a poisoned thorn in the pad of her palm. Now it was gone inside Lord Lorent’s body. She believed she had deposited it between his third and fourth rib. She must have nicked an artery; he should have barely bled.

  “They’ll find the wound soon,” she replied.

  Her “kerotera” caught her wrist and looked at the blood on her fingers. “You made a mistake?” Vinbor asked.

  She yanked her hand free. “Never.”

  With a yank at her chest’s ribbon, the dress fell around her feet. She wore supple leather greaves underneath. Normally she would have also had breastplate and vambraces, but fashion of the High demanded a certain amount of feminine skin. Gloves were tucked into her belt. She broke into a sprint.

  She was not Lady Enura, but Nina Silverhand. She used to have a longer formal àlvar name. Ninahel Aven Linora plus a couple more names.

  Nina was better. Silverhand had a reputation. Nina wouldn’t risk that reputation because Patrician Lorent distracted her.

  As she fled, the fête’s music faded to an indistinct hum. Nina and Vinbor darted through saplings growing to the north of the courtyard, in the direction of the Barren Cliffs. She moved faster once she kicked off her fancy slippers; with toes bared, she leaped off the edge of the mujan. She landed on the netting and rolled off again before striking the forest floor.

  A desert chasm encircled the southern wall of the courtyard. The difficult approach didn’t need to be guarded from below; nobody could survive the raging river that cut such a deep canyon. The nearest guards were on a cliff overlooking them a half-span away. Nina stayed behind crenellations to conceal her movement from those eyes. Light had fallen to darken the space between wall and cliff, so nobody would be able to see her climbing down the cliff to the point where she had left a crossing rope.

  Every movement she made, Vinbor stayed at her back. He was never more than three steps behind.

  “You know, you would be a good kerotera,” Nina tossed over her shoulder.

  “I assume you’d tell me if you meant that as an insult,” said Vinbor.

  She flashed teeth when she smiled.

  Nina crawled up the rope toward the cliff hand-over-hand, legs linked loosely to keep her body hanging underneath. Her gloves were roc hide. They could have easily survived a quick ride back down the rope if she needed to change course.

  She wasn’t seen before reaching the cliff.

  Vinbor was slower to follow. He shed the kerotera’s armor first, letting it fall down the cliffs into the river. He was wearing only loose-fitting black linen when he swung across the chasm to join Nina.

  “Won’t be missing any of that armor,” he said. “It’s a terrible design. These S?xe keroterase are begging to be cut down from the rear.”

  “Noted,” she said.

  They climbed the remainder of the cliff face using no equipment, only fingers and toes. They were as smooth-moving as any àlvar could climb his home thickets. Quickly, they drew level with the mujan, then climbed higher yet to the top of the cliff. A small security outpost stood on the edge. Two guards were stationed overlooking S?xe. Their telescope, intended for surveillance purposes, was aimed at the dancers in the courtyard. Ashrik and Keledor had been watching the entire party.

  “It’s my turn now,” said Ashrik. “Let me have a look.”

  Keledor was glued to the eyepiece. “But they’re doing a new dance. I don’t know this one.”

  “I want to see it!”

  They half-heartedly grappled with one another. It was the most entertainment they’d had for their posting, which would last a dull, immobile season. S?xe had known peace for vetone. The cliffs were too perilous to be a target of regular mischief. Even if something happened, they assumed one of the other guard towers up and down the cliff would ring an alarm. The first few fortnights had been pleasant. The nearer they reached the end of their three-month post, the less they could endure standing vigil.

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  Neither of them heard Nina coming.

  She entered the guard tower crouched low, a knife in hand, bare feet noiseless.

  She slit Ashrik’s throat from behind so quickly that he barely gurgled. Keledor didn’t even look away from the telescope until he heard Ashrik hit the ground, and then he met the sharp edge of her knife too. They died quickly, as she’d intended for them. Her hands never faltered.

  Why did she make a mistake with the poison thorn?

  In the same amount of time, Vinbor skewered two other guards with his short sword.

  Nina left Vinbor to arrange the bodies. Their patron had paid extra to have them staged within the tower. In fact, the patron had included illustrations with very specific configurations for each body. They had been hired by someone as particular as they were wealthy.

  The previous Night, Nina and Vinbor had concealed a bag under overhanging rocks. The perimeter Drakalban were looking for outside threats, not anyone coming from the xilcadis. It had been all too easy to place the weapon that would murder Lord Lorent unseen.

  From the bag, she drew a powerful shortbow and a single needle-tipped arrow. Its point matched the needle Nina had driven into Lorent’s side. The needles, taken from the jaws of a vosaik, longed to be together the way waves longed to devour the shore. The shaft was odol, the point odon, and the whole thing vibrated with intention.

  Lord Lorent was a tiny dot among many other dots, hardly a different shade of gold than anyone else under midday Light. Nina had memorized the way he strode, the glint of his hair. Now that she had been in his arms, she could associate his movements with the memory of his salty scent, the dimple that marked only his left cheek, and the way he had looked at her—like she was the only doe in the entire si?e.

  She didn’t need to recognize him.

  Nina strung the bow, kneeled smoothly, and steadied herself into position. She drew the bow once without an arrow to ensure it was still pliable after exposure to the weather. Then she nocked her special arrow. She pulled red-and-black fletchings to her cheek. Her fingers buzzed as she pulled back on the string.

  Release.

  The arrow flew.

  She dropped the bow, stood, and turned to help arrange the still-warm bodies of the guards. Ashrik was still twitching a little. She slid a knife under his chin again before dragging his body to Vinbor by the ankles.

  Vinbor was tying ropes to the outside of the guard tower, prepared to display the bodies as the client requested. He helped Nina get the first body up high. They hung him with his head on the bottom, arms spread out so that he formed a five-pointed star with his body. Ropes on his wrists kept the angle just right. They hung the other guard underneath him in a mirrored configuration.

  “Bloody,” Vinbor remarked once they were done. He used the cut clothes to wipe off his hands.

  “Didn’t have time to let them become less fresh,” said Nina. She grabbed a pair of dirty uniforms from the tower. Most of the wooden plates fit over her body suit. She had to skip some because she was too short and the plates overlapped. Vinbor fit his uniform better. He got everything laced from cloak to boots.

  Nina said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Not going to make sure you hit the target?” asked Vinbor.

  “I hit,” she said.

  * * *

  At the moment, Patrician Lorent was having a conversation with his steward behind a decorative trellis. “Make sure the guards know, Lady Enura can’t leave the xilcadis,” said Lorent. “She intends to go back to the Orkish border. We can’t allow that to happen.”

  “Is she a criminal?” asked the steward.

  “No, no,” said Lorent. He had found one little spot of blood on his tunic, but anyone could have accidentally jabbed him with a fork or suchlike. The dancing had gotten very rowdy. Keroterase had gotten involved sometime after Lady Enura left. “Don’t treat her like she’s a criminal. I just think my mother will want to speak with her.”

  The steward bowed deeply.

  Lorent had only taken two steps away before needle reunited with needle.

  The arrow came whistling out of nowhere, arced by some unseen wind, and whipped around the trellis to impact Lorent. The odon-flint point struck rib bone. The punch of the arrow was like a mallet on drum. Lorent looked down—he had reflexively gripped the arrow’s shaft — and he initially felt nothing but surprise at the sight of so much blood cascading onto his feet.

  Fleetingly, he worried how angry his mother would become at the mess.

  “What the hexes?” he asked, momentarily too confused to be worried. “That hurts.” The room was darkening around the edges.

  His mother approached. “Son? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Lorent. “I think it’s bad.”

  His legs wobbled. His vision blurred.

  Lady ?anveswe screamed: “Assassin!”

  Keroterase scattered in an explosion of activity, removing the ladies they protected.

  They needn’t worry, thought Lorent distantly.

  No second arrow came. The only target was Lorent.

  He could not even draw breath. His vision dimmed as he fell to his knees, tipped onto his side, and floundered in a puddle of his sticky blood. The last thing he saw was his mother’s slippers retreating as she tried to avoid the encroaching line of blood. Then Lorent saw nothing.

  * * *

  Rivoras an Danoras found more of Lady Enura’s family dead elsewhere in the manor. The killer had been merciless. Her brother was strung up by his ankles with the kitchen staff, no better or worse than the scullery maid. A visiting cousin was hanging in the foyer. Enura’s father was cold in his bed. They had all been placed with methodical care such as only the most monstrous killer might devise, much less execute.

  Who could bear to slaughter and pose an entire family?

  Rivor had trained for many scenarios on the path to becoming kerotera, but none prepared her for this.

  “Rivoras an Danoras. Come to me.”

  The voice echoed from outside.

  Even clinging to the edge of life, Rivor adjusted her posture to masculine confidence before responding. She stepped out the foyer, dragging her feet and clutching her wounds.

  A dark figure stood just beyond the arch of the front door. When she set foot on the step, the figure retreated. It remained out of reach without seeming to walk. And it cast no shadow.

  Rivor shielded her eyes from the Light, seeking to distinguish details in the middle of its oversized cloak, but there was nothing to be seen. This was some elemental piece of the slow-moving waters and mangroves, grown out of the rot that collected under sedge. It was said that dead things never decayed all the way in the substrate. Sometimes creatures died and then came back angrier for it.

  Considering how many Ork were surely caught in the swamp, the anger could have been mighty indeed.

  She feared to reply to the shadow-thing. She wavered in the doorway, afraid to go forward, afraid to go back.

  “You are too weak for the revenge you desire,” said the creature. He had a masculine voice with a rough edge like buzzing flies. She could not identify an accent that was Orkish or àlvar.

  Rivor fell to her knees, muscles liquid. A mosquito landed upon her sweaty brow. “I will get revenge,” she said under her breath. She thought if she spoke to herself, she was not speaking to the shadow—it could not harm her.

  “I know your desire,” said the darkness. “I will give you power to fulfill this oath. I’ll grant strength, speed, and flight like the eagles. You may take strange powers like mine: fists of wind and whips of blood. All this and more, you may have until your quarry is dead.”

  “No,” said Rivor, still speaking only to herself.

  His bargain was not worth considering.

  There would be a price. There is always a price.

  “Of course there is a price,” he said.

  The flies were biting, the Light was growing hotter, and Rivor was dizzy for want of blood. She could not lift her dagger again.

  “We crave the wicked,” the creature continued. “We would take the hearts of those you kill until you fell your final opponent. For collateral, you will give us your capacity for love.”

  “I cannot love already,” said Rivor, sinking onto all fours. She couldn’t deny that they were in conversation now. She looked up at him, and still, she could see nothing but a blotch against the deepest shadows of a harshly lit afternoon. “The capacity for love was cut out of me long ago.”

  “If so, you have nothing to lose. I will take the love from your breast and fill the hole with power. Power to sate your needs and mine. Fulfill your oath and you will be free.”

  The kerotera had not loved before, and love remained far from her priorities. She could not get so close to anyone while she was hiding her true self. What little feeling penetrated her bloodless haze was hatred, despair, rage.

  “We think it’s a fair price, even if you kill only one victim for us,” said the creature. “And you will be so strong, you may do anything you please. Anything at all.”

  Except for love. A useless vestigial appendage of one’s voi.

  A fair price.

  “A fair price,” she rasped. “Yes.”

  As quick as that, she was taken in the grip of a dark hand. Life flooded into Rivor’s body. She was pulled upright, and it felt as though she were given bones as strong as the ancient trunks of spreadroot trees. Her veins raced with quicksilver. Her heart beat faster, color drained from the swamps, and her master’s house seemed to dwindle. Biting flies could no longer penetrate her skin. The Light grew distant.

  “What should I call you, my patron?” asked Rivor from the depths of premature Night.

  “I am Hollow,” replied he. “I can only be filled by the likes of you. Make me full, Rivor.”

  When he released her, she fell again to his knees on the mujan. True Night had arrived, and the twin crescents of the anti-god’s eyes seemed to smirk at her.

  A fair price...

  Drakalban: guards of a xilcadis, so basically police

  odol/odon: types of wood and stone that have a lot of Chaos in them, which makes them more easily influenced by magic

  si?e: a region encompassing many xilcadise, sort of like a state in a country

  veton (plural vetone): a two-year period of time

  voi: basically a soul