Goris took a moment to find his bearings. Two Kingsguard glared at him, and he touched a hand to the trickle of blood at his temple. He probably looked like he’d been in a fight. He nodded at them and was on his way. His head swam with a swirling mix of attraction and… yes, the ale; that’s what this feeling was. Was he drunk? He couldn’t be sure. He rested his head against the cool stone of a shuttered building.
The Noble Quarter, that’s where he needed to be. He only knew it was on the south side of the river, but that’s where Berenice Dynevor would be after finishing up festivities at the palace. He’d heard the stories about the nobles and their lust for power, but they couldn’t be all bad. Everyone had some good in them, and if there was ever a night for that good to shine, it was Adenne’s Night. The Lady of Love looked favourably upon the bold, that’s what the mage had said. It was worth a try, and he didn’t want to go back to the concourse.
He set out, jaw clenched, determined to prove he could get by in the city without the watchful presence of his older brother. There was still a steady flow of people moving towards the King’s Concourse, though it was nothing like the seething tide that had carried him there.
After taking a wandering route through a maze of dark streets, he reached the North Bank. Warehouses dominated the skyline on the southern side of the river, and his destination lay somewhere beyond. He stepped down into one of the many broad tunnels which ran under the river, a circular mouth that felt like it was about to swallow him whole.
When he emerged, an eerie hush lay over the streets like a deathly shroud. His footsteps rang on the cobbles, each one causing a grimace lest he attract the attention of bandits, strong-arms and thugs no doubt patrolling the side streets and alleys, casting furtive glances his way as he passed. Every shadowed recess was an ambush waiting to be sprung, and his paranoia grew with each step.
He fumbled at his waist, reassuring himself his belt knife was still there, for all the good it would do if someone accosted him. The night had grown cold, a chill wind whipping off the river to wind its way through the more spacious streets of the southern half of the city.
Goris emerged onto a wide tree-lined boulevard, and spotted two soldiers leaning on a gatepost. He stepped out onto the boulevard, skirting the far side, away from the soldiers.
‘Hey, you! You lost, boy?’
Goris half-spun at the shout. One soldier advanced towards him, hand on sword hilt.
He shook his head quickly. ‘Lost? No, sir. I just wanted to explore the city. The festival was a bit much for me.’
The soldier sneered. ‘No luck getting laid, eh, lad? Hey, Patches! The lad ain’t having no luck with the ladies.’
Patches shot a lidded, disinterested glance over. ‘Leave the lad alone, Flock. In case you ain’t noticed, none of us is getting any action tonight. Brothels will be full up to the rafters. Good night to work in a brothel, so it is.’
Flock turned back to Goris, clapping him on the shoulder and squeezing harder than was necessary. ‘There you go, lad. You heard Patches. Go sort out your problems at a brothel. Best ones is… Well, you don’t want the best ones. The Rattle is the place for you, I’d wager. Right on the other side of yon river.’ He spun Goris right around and walked him a few paces down the boulevard. ‘Off you go, lad.’
Goris dug his heels against the paved boulevard, opening his mouth to protest. Flock was fast, showing him half a foot of gleaming metal as he eased his sword from its sheath, leaning close enough to decorate Goris’ face with spittle. ‘You heard me, lad. The nobles don’t want your sort roaming these here streets, you see. You don’t want no trouble, so off you go, nice and quiet, like. Me and Patches see you skulking around up here again, and you’ll feel a sharp bite.’
Goris felt anger rise within him, but he complied with Flock’s herding, traipsing down the street he’d just come from as his mind searched for a solution. There had to be more than one way into the Noble Quarter. However, it was likely all the entrances and exits were guarded. He looked up at the cliff face that served as a backdrop to the noble estates. There was no hope of him scaling that and descending his way back down further along the face.
He took a turn into an alley, emboldened by a growing need to make progress south. He wandered for a time, foiled over and again by patrolling soldiers or Kingsguard. It was no surprise this part of the city was more heavily guarded, though it appeared there were fewer people skulking about the alleys than he’d expected. But he needed to find a way through. It had grown late, and festivities at the noble estates would be well underway. The Noble Quarter was situated on a platform of sorts, providing a perfect natural barrier to interlopers. Goris peered from the alley; a thick stone wall surrounded the Noble Quarter, and it appeared the only gaps in it were for access roads, which were manned.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Thirty paces to his right, three figures clad in black scuttled in between buildings on the far side of the boulevard. Moments later, two of them scaled the wall with alarming ease. A quiet, gargled cry sounded from the other side of the wall, and the third figure shimmied up and over like a spider.
If they could do it so quickly, Goris was confident he could make the climb, albeit somewhat slower. He glanced left and right before taking a deep breath and slipping across the boulevard, painfully aware he stood out in his white shirt. Once across, he searched for the part of the wall where the black-clad figures had climbed; whatever may have awaited him on the far side of the wall had been dealt with. It had to be his best and probably only opportunity.
Upon reaching the relevant section of the wall, he understood how the others had made the climb so quickly. Subtle handholds and footholds had been chiselled into the stone, allowing for easy purchase. Whoever the black-clad figures were, their entry into the Noble Quarter had been planned.
The climb was around five man-heights, and he scrambled up as quickly as he could manage. He hooked a hand over the top of the wall, preparing to haul himself over, when he heard a shout. ‘Oi! What in the name of Gods do you think you’re doing? Get down from there, you dirty arse-rag!’ Goris misplaced his foot, feeling it slip, and winced as his knees scraped against the rough limestone. The same stone dug into his hands as he kicked, frantically searching for the final foothold as his weight threatened to drag him down into the clutches of the soldiers below.
His boot found a flat surface, and he used it to hoist himself over the wall, rolling to drop over the other side. As he fell, he realised he hadn’t accounted for how high the wall was. He was thankful for the outward slope of the wall as he bounced down it, almost twice his own height, as he rolled onto the paved street.
He came to a halt when he rolled up against something. Disorientated, and nursing a throbbing elbow, he sat up, and reached out a hand to steady himself. Shouts sounded beyond the wall. ‘Round! Go round! The bastard got over. Captain will tear us a new arsehole if he finds out!’
Goris frowned. His hand was warm. Horror grew as he realised he’d rolled up against a person face-down in the street. His stomach lurched as the crimson stain spread from underneath the man. He yanked his hand up and away from the pool of blood, wiping it on his shirt in a blind panic, before he kicked himself clear.
He scrambled to his feet and nudged the body with a boot. The head lolled to one side, sightless eyes staring up at him. The clothes were familiar. A shroud of horror settled upon Goris as he recognised the uniform of a soldier. He let out a whimper as he heard boots and the faint clatter of armour closing from the west. Blood stained his hands, his shirt, and one side of his breeches. There was only one thing left to do: Run east.
He raced alongside an immense wall topped with spikes to discourage would-be intruders; an immovable sentinel with deadly fangs of iron. Trees leaned over the wall from inside the estate, shaking their boughs to deposit blood-red leaves on the street in a perpetual crimson rain.
Goris almost lost his footing on the slippery carpet of leaves, capering around a corner in search of the gates to what was surely a noble estate. The shouts behind him had dwindled, but he knew the guards would still be searching for him, and that his bloodstained white shirt made him easy to identify. He slowed to a walk as he approached the gates, getting as near as he dared. The guardhouse would be manned, even on Adenne’s Night. He squinted at the sigil on the pillars framing the gate; it looked like a bird of some sort. It wasn’t the thistle of Dynevor, in any case.
Not daring to pass the gatehouse, he slunk deeper into the Noble Quarter. The inside wasn’t as heavily guarded as the perimeter and the rumble of the occasional wagon provided plenty of warning to find a shadowed alcove or an alley, but he avoided the major streets where possible.
He walked along a gentle rise, the cliffs marking the city’s southern boundary loomed ever closer and he considered retracing his steps. As he rounded a corner, an arrow whizzed through the space above his head and he dropped into a crouch, scurrying back the way he had come.
His head pounded with the rush of blood, and his hands trembled. He willed his legs into motion, but they refused to cooperate. He tried to still his frayed nerves, to regain some measure of composure, but it wouldn’t come. As the sound of boots neared, he pressed himself against the wall of the estate and looked for an escape route as voices grew louder.
‘You sure it was him?’
‘Who else could it be?’
‘Dunno, but if we shoot some snot-faced noble lad full of arrows, hanging will be the least of our worries.’
‘You worry too much. That’s your problem.’
‘Fine. You explain it to the Captain.’
‘It was him.’
‘You hit him? Didn’t hear a scream.’
‘Well, it wasn’t a killing shot, wanted to make sure we could have our fun with him. He won’t escape us now.’
They were almost upon him now. His frantic search for a hiding place or an escape route had been in vain. Flight would mean an arrow in the middle of his back. Armed with only a belt knife, taking on two soldiers would surely end in his demise. The element of surprise would give him some advantage, but it would be temporary. He gripped his belt knife and swallowed. Five paces.
He took a deep breath and froze.
The birthstone resting on his chest had grown warm and was growing warmer still. It felt like it should burn his skin. He traced his fingers over the stone, gasping as his hand became warm, then hot. The feeling surged up his arm, before something pulled on him, slowly dragging him into the wall at his back. His free hand and the wall merged into one, his panic rising as the wrist followed. He tugged in the opposite direction, serving only to jar his shoulder against the wall’s unshakable grip. His boots skidded on cobbles as the inextricable flow of his arm into the wall continued, taking his shoulder.
He screamed as his face touched the hot stone. He had just enough time to heave in a desperate breath before he was engulfed, and the last thing he saw was the horror-stricken faces of two soldiers.
He couldn’t move. Yet he felt the crushing weight of the stone pressing against him from all sides. He couldn’t breathe even had he wanted to, his chest constricted almost to the point of collapse. He didn’t know how thick the wall was, or how long he could hold his breath under this weight. With his body fully encased in the stone, panic gave in to acceptance. Centuries from now, when the wall eroded or was destroyed, giving up its secret, his presence inside the wall would provide a fine mystery.
His head swam, and spots appeared behind his squeezed-shut eyelids as awareness dimmed. Drowning would have been a mercy; at least he could have relented, to take that breath to end it.
Something rushed towards his face. It was only when soft turf thudded against his temple that he realised he’d been spat out from the confines of the wall. Sweet air flooded his lungs. He sat up, dazed, he stared back towards the wall. There was no sign anything had happened; it was as though the stone hadn’t been disturbed at all.
He lay back and stared at the sky until he laughed at the impossibility of what had just occurred. The birthstone was cool against his chest. He didn’t know whether to keep it or if he should throw it as far as he possibly could.
Goris plotted his way through the gardens of the estate, using shrubs trimmed into the likeness of various animals as cover. He leaned against a rearing horse to collect his breath, he peered towards a dark edifice looming against the backdrop of the cliffs. Candlelight flickered from two windows, one in the upper echelons of a corner tower, the other from a grand arched window at ground level. All else was calm, illuminated only by a fitful moon. It seemed awfully quiet; it was late, but he expected festivities would still be ongoing. How long had he been trapped inside the wall? It felt like only moments.
His route led him along a walled gravel path, and he winced as each step brought a crunching, grinding sound beneath his boots. Doorways and arches lined the path, and Goris expected an irate Houseguard to burst out from any one of them at any moment.
The house proper was vast, and he was taken aback by the sheer scale of it. If he hadn’t been in the King’s Concourse just this night, this building would have seemed like a palace. Intricate patterns flowed along the stonework that framed windows and doors. Coloured glass, shaped just so to form thistle patterns, decorated the corners of windows. He swallowed. The thistle of Dynevor. Berenice was surely inside. Maybe after everything that had happened tonight, Adenne really was looking upon him.
Curiosity grappled with alarm as he found the grand entrance door ajar. Where were the guards? He found the answer to his question as he stepped inside. A man and a woman slumped against one another in a heap on the carpeted floor. A small crossbow bolt jutted from the arm of the man, its twin buried in the woman's neck. The skin around the bolt was a sickly grey that had spread to the lower part of the face, the muscles slack and drooping. He reached down to touch her, jerking his hand back as he felt heat pouring from the wound.
He remained in his crouch, glancing around. He’d surely have been dead if the assailant was still within sight. Pain rose behind his eyes, and he steadied himself with a hand on the floor until it passed. He’d never seen a dead body before tonight, and now he’d seen three in one night. With a silent promise to find Berenice, to take her to safety, he scavenged a sword from the stricken guards, hefting it with a shaky hand as he advanced deeper into the house. After climbing a wide set of stairs, he arrived at a set of double doors, the handles intricately carved into thistle heads. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped inside.
The sword clattered to the floor. Berenice Dynevor was draped across the bed, unmoving. The sheets were an immaculate white save for the blood pooled around her in thick, cloying stains. Whoever had done this had not been kind; multiple slashes marred Berenice’s arms, legs, and face. Her killers had taken her beauty before taking her life.
Goris squeezed his eyes shut as tears formed. He wanted to go home.
Adenne, the Lady of Love, stood at the bottom of the stairs in silent vigil. She’d felt the tug of the boy Goris in the King’s Concourse, had sought him out immediately. The pureness of his heart was… delicious. When he’d set eyes on the girl, love flowed through him and he blazed like a beacon fire to Adenne’s eyes.
She had drunk deep of him, enough to sustain her for another year. It was only right that she should return something to him. Adenne’s Favour was given rarely, but she knew the importance of giving her gift with enough regularity to keep the Caranin believing in her.
Some years she took on the guise of one of the village girls to experience the festival first hand. Tonight she had opted for secrecy, remained shrouded from sight as she’d guided the youth away from his brother, over the river. He lacked the natural skill to look after himself, and she’d had to intervene on a couple of occasions. A minor boon; the real drama of the evening had been a supposedly straight-forward arrangement with Ompic. The Lord of Stone had shown undue interest in the boy, threatening to keep him entombed in the wall. Wrenching Goris away hadn’t been easy, leaving her almost spent, and had only been possible due to her proximity. What could Ompic possibly want with a mundane, naïve village boy?
Adenne observed Goris climb the stairs, about to encounter his love, the object of his misplaced affection. Her work for the evening was almost complete, and she smiled, satisfied that the pair would live out their days in a bottomless wellspring of love. The fallout would be ugly, of course; Lord and Lady Dynevor would not take kindly to their treasured eldest daughter falling in love with a common boy. Their interests were self-serving. The game of marrying sons and daughters into other families was an affront to the very essence of Adenne’s being. Interventions such as this one were so satisfying.
Her steps faltered. Twin knives emerged from her torso, slick with blood. She gasped as she was heaved from her feet, before she slid slowly off the blades to hit the floor face-first with a dull crack. She scrambled around on the wooden floor. Her vision blurred, but she could make out two shapes standing over her. A man and a woman? They were arguing.
‘… You stupid oaf, I thought you said you’d got them all.’
‘I did. I’m sure I did. Don’t know where this one came from. Shame as well, she’s a pretty one.’
‘Just kill her, you pig. Make sure.’
Her vision was clearing now; she could feel herself healing, the wounds beginning to close underneath her gown. The knives had missed her heart, the fools. Even if they had struck true, it wouldn’t have killed her outright, but she’d have needed help. She remained still, leaving the mask of shock in place to buy herself the time needed to recover sufficiently to exact revenge. She was weak, but she’d have enough for these two. The man leaned over her, brought up his arm, ready to plunge the knife into her again.
The woman shouldered him aside, peered closer. Adenne stirred, her fingers and hands twitching.
‘You stinking stillborn son of a goat! What have you picked a fight with? She’s healing!’
‘Then let’s get out of here!’ came the reply.
‘No. We have to end this or we’ll beg for Droll’s Mercy before the night is out.’ Calculating eyes appraised Adenne. Then came the verdict: ‘Cut off her head.’
Adenne tried to scream, but nothing came. She needed more time to heal. Terror coursed through her as the two exchanged a look. The woman sneered. ‘Fine, I’ll do it myself.’ Metal flashed, bit hard into her neck, and she knew no more.
Sprite had made good time in her pursuit of Karth and Lerra. The pair had no honour, had refused to help during the fight with the Salamander. They had left her to die back there, and for that, they would pay with their lives.
On her approach to the Noble Quarter, she’d heard the commotion that went with the discovery of a body. So, the two had stirred up an ant’s nest to slow her progress. Perhaps they hadn’t accounted for the fact that Sprite knew this city intimately. She skirted east to avoid the manhunt, keeping to the cliff road that would eventually swing round and lead her directly to the Dynevor estate.
She was soon darting through a sparse meadow inside the estate walls, the damp leaf fall dulling the sound of her footsteps. She slowed as she picked her way through sculpted shrubbery flanking gravel pathways, approaching the eastern wing of the house. It was quiet, but if Karth and Lerra had already gone about their business, that was to be expected. If they were still here, they’d be waiting for her.
Finding the door to the house ajar, she slipped silently inside. The two guards with poisoned bolts protruding from them weren’t important; a classic distraction. Voices rose from the archway beneath the grand split staircase. A hushed argument between a man and a woman by the sound of it. They had made a mistake.
She eased a knife from the sheath under her left arm, and took a couple of steps, making sure nothing would elicit a giveaway creak. With her back to the cool stone inside the archway, she advanced into the next room, staring at the backs of Karth and Lerra.
Karth’s broad shoulders tensed. Lerra was cleaning a long knife on the hem of the dress of her latest victim. The pair were about to turn, and the archway offered no real cover. She fancied it would be an even fight if she had to take the two at the same time without the element of surprise.
She flicked her wrist and a moment later, a knife thudded into Karth, embedding itself in his spine. She sprinted at Lerra, hoping to catch her off-guard, but the damned woman was quick. Sprite rolled away from danger, leaving a hopeful backslash in her wake. She grunted as her momentum carried her forward and a gash opened up across her thigh. The dance began as they circled around the decapitated woman, shifting balance from one foot to the other. Lerra ducked and feinted, hoping to draw Sprite into an ill-fated attack.
Sprite had underestimated her adversary once, but she wasn’t about to do so again. They wheeled and dodged, taking the measure of one another. Sprite looked for any weakness or opening, trying to discern a pattern in Lerra’s movements; what was real and what was feigned.
Lerra kicked the severed head of her victim towards Sprite’s midriff. Sprite grunted as the head smacked into her ribs, forcing her to duck underneath Lerra’s attack, which would otherwise have resulted in a hand’s width of metal jammed into her neck. She rolled free and into a crouch, only to be met flush in the face by Lerra’s boot. Her teeth sliced into the inside of her lip, leaving a deep gash.
She spat blood, and hauled herself to her feet to parry a thrust aimed at her heart. Lerra followed in close, trying to drive the knife in her off-hand up into Sprite’s chin. Sprite planted a foot against Lerra’s thigh, pushing back in time to disengage. Blood leaked down her own leg, dripped from her chin in a steady crimson rivulet. Something firm touched her shoulder, and she found herself backed up against the wall.
Lerra advanced on her, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. ‘They said you could fight.’
Sprite spat a mouthful of blood into Lerra’s face in reply, and snarled as she launched herself forward like a cornered animal. Lerra backpedalled, trying to stave off blows and thrusts that never arrived. Sprite pushed hard onto her lead leg, biting down as blood welled from the wound in her thigh. Her initial slash aimed at spilling Lerra’s entrails was blocked by a forearm, the metal gouging into bone and drawing a scream. Sprite lunged into an overarm thrust with her long knife, humming with satisfaction as the blade lodged itself between Lerra’s clavicles. The woman’s face painted a perfect picture of surprise in death, and Sprite smiled as the body crumpled at her feet.
She sat down hard, spitting more blood and tying off her leg wound with a strip of Lerra’s victim’s dress. There was something about the sightless head staring across the room. Sprite had never seen the woman before, yet she didn’t match the description of Lady Dynevor. The dress, once of purest white, now bore a ruby stain. Too fine for a servant or a maid.
Her head whipped around at the sound of a scuffed boot from inside a bedroom.
Berenice Dynevor had been butchered like a spring lamb, and the reality of the situation hit Goris. His hands trembled as he considered escaping the estate with a killer at large. He turned his back on the girl he had spent all night mooning over, scrubbing tears from his cheeks as he tried to control his breathing. Retrieving the sword, he gave a couple of practice swings, grunting as his lack of competence was laid bare.
He blew out a long breath, and eased the doors open, sword at the ready. A dark flash swept in front of him. He didn’t even raise the sword to defend before he felt cold metal stabbing into him, gouging along ribs. He was vaguely aware of his screams filling the hall, of the sword thudding against the rug-covered walkway. Pain engulfed him and he curled up around the wound in his torso.
Small hands, so strong, unfurled him and laid him out flat. The most dazzling green eyes he’d ever seen stared down at him as he convulsed in terror. He was going to die.
A gloved hand slapped him flush across the cheek, jerking his head sideways. His panicked mewling ceased as he waited for the killing blow. Tousled blonde hair draped across the girl’s face as she sighed.
‘Calm it, country boy. You’ll live. As long as you stay quiet, that is.’
He screamed again, this time in agony. A blow he never saw struck him in the temple, and everything went black.