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  He stared into space, appearing sad and old, as if the years suddenly grew heavier than he could bear.

  Narine knew her father never left the city, but she had never given it much consideration. Judging by his tirade, the position of wizard lord came with shackles she had never expected. If the thrill of Devotion is as consuming as he described, what has it done to his soul? The question made her shudder.

  Another thought came to her, something that had troubled her the moment she had entered the room. Drawing on her resolve, she dared voice another subject likely to draw his ire.

  “Why do you surround yourself with those women?” Narine leaned forward and put her hand on his. “Mother has been gone for many years. Perhaps it is time to find someone else, someone who cares for you.”

  Do you have love in your heart any longer?

  Rather than stirring anger, his sadness grew more apparent, the look in his eyes reflecting great loss. “Your mother was the last.” He shook his head. “I cannot do it again. I cannot bear to lose another wife, nor another child. I have suffered many lifetimes of loss. I have no more love to give.”

  She frowned at his last statement and tried to puzzle it out.

  The man had married eight times, sometimes waiting decades after the death of one wife before taking another. His children had also come and gone. When Narine was young, she had asked him about the brothers and sisters she would never know. The man had told her to focus on the living and to never ask again.

  Among dozens, only one sibling remained – one of a different mother.

  “Where is Eldalain?”

  Her father blinked, as if returning from some distant memory. “What? Oh, yes. I gave your brother a task some time ago. He is in Westhold.”

  “Westhold? Why not just have High Wizard Fordham handle it?”

  “Because,” a voice came from behind her, “Fordham was the reason for my mission.”

  Narine turned to find Eldalain standing in the doorway. He had aged, and his beard, previously close-cropped, now reached his chest. The man’s eyes, however, were the same – dark, sunken, and brooding. Those eyes made her want to shy away.

  Eldalain approached and lifted the sack in his hand, tossing it onto the table. Narine gasped when she realized it was blood-soaked.

  “What is that?” she asked, her hand covering her mouth.

  “Fordham’s head.”

  “Oh, dear Gheald.” She turned toward Eldalain, aghast. “Why?”

  Her father replied. “A few months back, I discovered a plot to unseat me. Fordham sought to take my place.” Taladain nodded toward Eldalain. “I sent your brother to handle it. Yes, Fordham had his uses, but the power accompanying his position apparently fed his aspirations rather than sating them. He drained his city’s coffers to fund his plot. When I caught wind of it, I knew it had to end immediately or risk others joining his cause. Worse, I could not have them thinking I am vulnerable to another attempt.”

  Eldalain sat with a heavy sigh. “I am exhausted from the journey.”

  Hands clapped, and Master Ruthers stepped in, followed by servants with carafes of wine and water, as well as trays of food.

  “Dinner is served,” Ruthers announced.

  “Wonderful,” Eldalain said. “I am famished.”

  Narine continued to stare at the blood-soaked sack on the table, horrified.

  Eating was the furthest thing from her mind.

  25

  The Thirsty Goat

  The sight of Fastella left Jace with mixed emotions. For twenty-one years, the city had been the only home he had known…if you could call it a home. He had never known his father, and his mother had grown ill when he was nine. Three months later, she was gone. Alone, he lived on the streets, forced to adapt or die. His memories of life in Fastella were both good and bad, his departure abrupt.

  Similar to Marquithe, the walls of Fastella stood a hundred feet tall, the gate’s maw large enough to sail a ship through. Salvon’s cart rode through the opening as the sun met the western horizon.

  Once they were inside, the city seemed the same as it always had. Seven years may have passed outside the walls, but from what Jace saw, nothing had changed inside them. The streets were a bustle of wagons, carts, and people on foot, all heading in different directions. At the first corner, a beggar in rags played a game with three cups and a nut, taking bets from passersby as he challenged them to find the nut. I see Landis is still at it, Jace thought. The man was adept at sleight of hand and made a better living than his appearance might lead one to believe. The sight of the street hustler working the same game at the same corner brought Jace a sense of comfort. Truly, nothing had changed.

  The cart continued down Gheald Street – a broad thoroughfare leading to the heart of the city where the temple and palace loomed. Sighting the palace sparked a flicker of doubt as Jace recalled his contract, which suddenly became all too real, despite its unbelievable nature.

  I will find a way.

  At the third intersection, Salvon turned the cart onto a narrow side street. Three soldiers on horseback rode past, their purple capes draped over their backs, the iconic dog-shaped helmets on their heads. Over years past, Jace had a number of run-ins with the city guard but had only been arrested once. He was young at the time, and it had been a lesson well-learned. Not to stop stealing, but to avoid getting caught.

  The cart turned into an alley barely wide enough for a full-sized wagon. Salvon drew the horse to a halt and climbed down. A middle-aged man with a shock of platinum-blond hair emerged from the stable. The man was big and shirtless. He wore loose trousers held up by suspenders, the trouser legs ending short of his bare ankles and shoeless feet.

  “Oh. Master Salvon.” The big man grinned. “It’s you.”

  “Are you sure, Hal?”

  The man’s grin faltered. He leaned close, eyes narrowed. “I think so. You look like Salvon. The cart looks like Salvon’s cart. But the horse is different.” Hal frowned. “What happened to Jibbers?”

  “I have sad news, Hal. Jibbers died.”

  “Oh no.” Hal shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “So, so sad.”

  Salvon patted the horse’s neck. “Meet Jabbers. He is my new horse and is even faster than Jibbers.”

  Jace burst out laughing and leaned close to Rhoa. “If this horse is faster, Jibbers must have walked in reverse.”

  Rhoa chuckled. “Not far from the truth.”

  “Does Breida have anyone performing tonight?”

  Hal turned toward the inn. “Hmm… A woman sang here days ago but nobody since. At least none I seen.”

  Salvon patted Hal’s shoulder. “In that case, will you care for Jabbers while I go speak with Breida?”

  Hal smiled. “Yessir.”

  “Come along.” Salvon waved them in.

  Rhoa stepped inside the inn and followed Salvon past a stone stairwell, two closed doors, and the kitchen before emerging into a taproom. She recalled her first visit to the inn years ago. In reality, little had changed, but the building seemed smaller than it had when she was nine.

  Similar to the rest of the city, The Thirsty Goat Inn occupied a grand building, built with impeccable craftsmanship, oversized doors, and high ceilings common to any Maker-built structure. The original walls were made of the same pale stone as the rest of the city, the seams almost impossible to detect. Newer walls built from wood existed inside the inn. Those had been added by man to alter the building for a purpose. In this case, the bar and the wall behind it were man-made and ran the length of the taproom. Along the front of the building, tall, arched windows faced the busy street. Two stories above the dining area was a high ceiling with exposed beams, as well as a second-story loft with dark wooden rails. Tables, chairs, and barstools filled the room, many of them occupied. At the far end, logs burned in a massive fireplace, the hearth an arched opening as tall as Rhoa. It was here where Salvon had brought her after her parents were taken by the city guard. The memory brought
a wave of sadness.

  Salvon spoke with Breida, the middle-aged woman standing behind the bar. Much as Rhoa remembered her, Breida was a heavy-set woman with broad hips and a chest ready to burst from her corset. Other than the gray in her braided hair and lines around her eyes, she had changed little. Her sharp eyes flicked from Salvon to the others and back as she spoke with the man. Since Rhoa was only a child when Breida had last seen her, she wondered if the woman would even recognize her.

  Salvon returned, holding his hand out toward Rhoa.

  “Here are two keys, both for rooms on the third floor. Take the smaller room for yourself.” Salvon pointed toward Rawk and Jace. “You two will stay with me for now. Breida promised us a few days, but we might lose the larger room if a paying customer wishes to rent it.”

  Rhoa heard Jace mutter something unsavory and gave him a glare as she spoke over him. “Thank you, Salvon. It is very kind of you to share your room.”

  “It is my pleasure, my dear,” Salvon said with a tilt of his head. He handed his bag to Rawk but kept his lute. “You three go on and put our things away. When you are finished, come down and Breida will have some food sent your way.”

  The old man spun around as Rhoa turned toward the stairs. “You heard him,” she said over her shoulder. “Let’s get rid of this stuff so we can eat.”

  She led them up to the third floor. There were two doors in the hallway, both closed. Using the key, she opened the first door to a room that was dimly lit by failing daylight coming through a window. The room contained three beds, a wardrobe, and a small table with two chairs. The ceiling sloped along one end, meeting the wall three feet above the floor. A bed was tucked against the slope, and Rhoa suspected Rawk would be stuck sleeping there. She also knew he wouldn’t mind.

  Rhoa moved along as the boys entered. At the end of the hall, she used the other key and opened the door. The room was small, the interior crowded by a bed and a small table with a bowl and pitcher on top. Like the other room, the roofline created a low, sloping ceiling that met the wall just above the bed. Her eyes went to the window and settled there. A memory replayed in her head, stirring a deep-seated sadness as she recalled the last time she had been in this room.

  26

  The Darkening

  Ten Years Ago

  Rhoa’s face was wet with tears, her nose running. She lay on her side, curled up on Salvon’s bed in his tiny room above The Thirsty Goat. The pallet she had been using for the past week was on the floor below the bed, occupied only by a blanket and a pillow. Although it was mid-morning, the light outside was that of dusk. For years, the Darkening had been a thing of dread, happening twice a year for as long as she could recall. Even when she was young, she had known of the Immolation. It seemed a horrible practice but had never affected anyone she had known. The harsh truth of it had never struck before now.

  The days since her parents’ capture had passed in a hazy blur of tears and nightmare-interrupted sleep. Salvon had done his best to console her, with little success. The man had tried stories and singing, things he knew well. Rhoa could find no joy in either. He then shifted to sweets, purchasing an array of pastries that should have brought a fervor of excitement to anyone her age, but Rhoa found them bland, tasteless, and unsatisfying.

  Calling on a friend who owned a ship, Salvon had taken Rhoa on a tour of the shoreline. He had pointed out many things, then they came across a pod of dolphins playing in the ship’s wake. Even in that, Rhoa felt no joy.

  The Darkening was coming. Her parents were going to die.

  Desperate, Rhoa had woken early that morning, just as the sky began to grow light. Carefully, she had snuck out of the room while Salvon slept, crept down the stairs and through the taproom, only to run into Breida as she stepped out of the kitchen. The woman had put both fists on her ample hips and gave Rhoa a threatening look before shooing her back to her room.

  “You will only end up dead, as well, Rhoa,” Salvon had said to her. “You must live on and find a place in this world. It is what your parents would have wanted.”

  “You speak of them as if they are already dead,” Rhoa had shouted back with tears in her eyes.

  Salvon then hugged her, gently stroking her hair as she cried. “I am sorry, my dear. They are as good as dead.”

  “How do you know? What if they escape? What if Lord Taladain changes his mind?” Her pleas had sounded hollow. Even at nine years old, her own lies were difficult to accept.

  “Today is the second day of the Darkening. The ceremony will take place, and the public is invited to come and watch.”

  Rhoa had never seen the ritual. Her parents had forbade it. “Please, let me go. Let me see them.” She had stared into his eyes, hoping he might bend.

  Salvon shook his head. “I am sorry, my sweet, but that is a very bad idea. It will be too difficult for you to watch, and you might bring attention toward yourself. No good can come of me allowing you to go.”

  “But–”

  “However, I will go in your stead.” His voice was thick with compassion. “I will bear the pain of witnessing their sacrifice so you will know the truth.”

  So the man had locked Rhoa in his room and left, joining thousands of others who would see her parents die at the hands of a wizard.

  In Rhoa’s heart, a seed of hatred had been planted – hatred toward the Immolation ceremony, hatred toward the man responsible, hatred toward herself for being unable to stop it. She cried and cried in a mixture of anger, sadness, and frustration.

  Eventually, the tears stopped falling, her eyes drying up like a desert. They itched, so she sat up and rubbed them while staring at the wall. Her entire world was gone. She had no house, no bedroom, no parents, no family to turn to for help.

  Other than Salvon, she was alone. With the sun hidden behind the moon, all joy seemed to have faded from the world.

  A noise at the door drew her attention – a key turning the lock. The door opened and Salvon entered. He gave her a smile that did not erase the sadness in his eyes.

  “It is done,” he said.

  She nodded numbly. Hope had fled her hours earlier, replaced by bitter acceptance.

  Salvon sat on the bed and put his arm about her shoulders. She leaned her head against his chest. He smelled faintly of wood smoke, and his beard tickled her cheek.

  “I have something for you, dear one,” he said gently. “Something special.”

  “A gift?” she asked.

  “Yes. A gift to help secure your future.”

  She looked at him in alarm. “What of my future? I can’t stay with you?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I am old and my health is failing. I fear it will grow worse and will become a burden.”

  “Why do the gods hate me so?” Rhoa said numbly. “First, my parents were taken away, and now you are leaving me.” Somehow, her dry eyes found enough moisture to spout new tears, blurring her vision. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  His hand stroked her hair. “You will not be alone. After much consideration, I have found you a new family.”

  Rhoa’s heart quickened as a spark of hope flickered inside her. She blinked the tears away. “A family?”

  “Yes. They are outside the city walls, waiting for you to join them.”

  “Why outside the city?”

  “Because this family is a troupe in a menagerie.”

  “A what?”

  He chuckled. “They are performers – jugglers, knife throwers, musicians, and others.”

  “What of me?”

  He reached under the mattress and removed something wrapped in leather, placing it on Rhoa’s lap. There was a weight to whatever was inside. She stared down at it, thinking of what it might be.

  “Go on,” he said. “Open it.”

  She unrolled the leather with care. A hilt appeared, the pommel shiny silver with odd symbols encircling it. Another hilt followed, both with leather-wrapped handles and short cross-pieces. Rhoa touched one. A flicker of blue s
tatic snapped at her finger. She jerked it away, but it didn’t hurt. She tried touching the other hilt, and the same thing occurred. Steeling herself, she gripped them both, but nothing happened.

  Pulling the blades from their sheaths, she found them to be the oddest daggers she had ever seen. Rather than being flat with a sharp edge, the blades were cylindrical and came to a single, sharpened point, the shafts at an angle from the hilt.

  “These are strange knives,” she said.

  “More than you know. They are special. They are called fulgur blades.”

  “Fulgur blades.” She tested the words.

  “Try to stab the wall.” The man gestured toward the wall beside her.

  Rhoa frowned. “It’s stone. I’ll just ruin the blade.”

  “Try it. You may surprise yourself.”

  Squeezing the hilt of one blade, Rhoa lifted it over her head and jammed the metal point at the stone. Blue sparks flared as the blade sank deep.

  Rhoa gasped. “Magic.”

  Salvon chuckled. “Truly. The blade is enchanted, able to cut through anything, even stone.”

  Rhoa tugged on the knife, but it held fast. “It’s stuck,” she said between gritted teeth.

  “Press your thumb against the pommel.”

  She did as he said and felt a click. The blade slid out of the wall with ease.

  Staring at it in wonder, Rhoa said, “This is too great a gift. I cannot accept it, Salvon.” She set the blades into the leather wrap and held the bundle toward him. “Take them and sell them. Use the money to get a healer who can cure you.”

  He shied away from the bundle and shook his head. “There is no healer here who can help. I have tried all options, save one. For my last hope, a long and arduous journey awaits, one laced with risks I would not share with you.” Salvon gently pushed the leather bundle back toward her. “Even if I wanted to take the blades, they would do me no good. They are now bound to you and will shock anyone else who tries to touch them.”