Master of restless shado.., p.1
Master of Restless Shadows Book Two, page 1
part #2 of Master of Restless Shadows Series
Master of Restless Shadows Book Two
by Ginn Hale
Published by: Blind Eye Books
315 Prospect Street #5393
Bellingham WA 98227
www.blindeyebooks.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Nicole Kimberling
Copyedit by Megan Gendell
Ebook Design by Michael DeLuca
Cover Art by Zaya Feli
Cieloalta City Map by Rhys Davies
Book Design and interior by Dawn Kimberling
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places or events is coincidental.
First Edition February 2022 Copyright © 2022 Ginn Hale
Print ISBN: 978-1-935560-65-4
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-935560-66-1
Printed in the United States of America
Chapter One
Ariz turned his short sword over in his hands, inspecting the heavy blade. Hours of sharpening and polishing had eradicated nearly all testimony to the violence of his last three weeks. Now only a single chip lingered to indicate the exact point where vertebrae had ground against the steel edge. No evidence at all remained from his fast, clean thrusts that had plunged between ribs to spear hearts and puncture lungs. At a glance, no one would have noticed anything but a sharp, white line where the setting sun’s light caught the length of the blade.
In his youth, Ariz had admired that razor’s edge of light and delighted in the thought that the white-hot stroke reflected the ferocity of a master smith’s radiant forge. Now, beneath a weeping willow, he shifted his blade to hide its bright, killing edge. A breeze rose from the river and the green boughs swayed around Ariz. He moved with them, as if he were no more than a shadow.
Somewhere beyond this walled garden children laughed and shouted in a game of chase. A lonely nightingale sang out the first notes of an evening serenade. The scent of roses drifted from carefully tended trellises.
Ariz closed his grip on the worn haft of his short sword. The rough sharkskin grip that had once scrubbed his palm and fingers raw now fit his hand like a glove. The sword had calloused his skin and shaped the growing bones of his hands just as his sweat and hard grip had worn the leather. He and the sword were a perfect fit.
But Ariz no longer felt gratified by that thought. He maintained the blade’s sharp edge and honed his own swift, sure thrusts not because he took any satisfaction in either anymore, but because it ensured the fastest, most painless end for his victims. That was the only mercy he could offer.
Across the garden grounds, light flared as the gray-haired minister of the navy stepped out from the door of his study. Two of the man’s three personal guards hung back in the study. They would entertain and wait upon the minister’s pregnant young wife. A single household guard trailed the minister as he ambled toward the decorative stone tower that overlooked the river. Every evening the minister climbed up and, as far as Ariz could tell, simply watched the setting sun light the sails of the ships far below. Perhaps he surveyed the number of Cadeleonian flags flying from masts. Or maybe he noted where foreign ships docked, Ariz couldn’t say. What he did know was that the minister came to the tower unarmed and that his single guard’s attention very often wandered to the voices of the young women in the scullery. Tonight the minister hummed a melody from a popular opera and the guard smiled in a way that made Ariz suspect that he’d made inroads wooing a scullery maid.
Ariz darted his gaze to the two men standing in the doorway of the study. The minister’s wife teased them over their terrible suggestions for baby names and nursery songs.
They all felt so safe in this fragrant, familiar place.
Ariz couldn’t shelter any of them from what he must do to fulfill Hierro’s mission, but he would grant them what kindness he could. He would kill quickly.
As the minister neared the weeping willow, the scent of pipe smoke grew stronger. The minister ran his hand over the long boughs, inches from where Ariz stood. Leaves fluttered and whispered. Ariz waited, allowing the minister and his guard a few more seconds of peace. Then the minister’s hand brushed Ariz’s shoulder.
Ariz struck.
The minister’s lined face didn’t even register alarm before Ariz punched his sword through the swaying green boughs, slashing open the minister’s throat. His bleeding body toppled. Ariz sidestepped, lunging for the guard.
The young guard turned at the noise, but he wasn’t prepared for any greater threat than a garter snake or loose stone. Ariz drove his sword into the man’s chest, then kicked the guard’s dying body back off his blade. The guard fell, clutching for his own weapon and offering up a single shout. Ariz silenced him with a second blow, and for a moment burning agony surged through him as he purposefully turned his back on the two remaining guards and the minister’s young wife.
Hierro wanted them all dead—slaughtered and gutted—and this peaceful garden transformed into a tableau of violence. He wanted a nightmare brought into the waking world, but Ariz would deny him that. He was no longer an utterly hapless sleepwalker. One day he might wake completely from Hierro’s control. Until then, he’d resist as long as he could and endure the pain.
Searing agony shot through the brand in Ariz’s chest. One of the guards in the study shouted and the minister’s wife screamed. Ariz forced himself to sheath his sword.
He charged up the steps of the stone tower. The river far below shone gold in the sunset. Hundreds of ships plied the waters, looking like apple blossoms scattered across a brook. Ariz hardly noted any of it. He sprinted to the tower’s precipice and leapt—heart hammering as his body hurtled through the air. He soared like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Then he plunged down into the dark mass of an aged oak tree.
Leaves swatted his face and his sweat-slick hands slipped across the branches. His shoulder smacked hard against a thick bough as he caught himself. He scrambled through the branches, half falling as he climbed down. Rough bark bit and scraped his fingers and palms. The last ten feet, he simply dropped. He struck the ground, rolled to his feet and launched himself across the cobbled path outside the garden wall. Darting through a back gate, he sprinted up the alley. He raced along four winding blocks, then stopped. In the shadows behind a stable, he drew in a slow, calming breath. He wiped blood and sweat from his face and arms, knocked the leaves from his hair, then pulled off his cloak and rolled it to hide the blood spattered across the left shoulder.
After that, he moved on, but not hurriedly. His arms hung like weights, his expression went slack as sackcloth. He again became an unremarkable man plodding his way home. He passed a few weary fishmongers as he descended to the riverside. There, he let the dark waters take the tattered old cloak. At a waterfront tavern he reclaimed Moteado, his old, dappled stallion.
By the time alarm bells rang out from the minister’s grand house, Ariz had reached the Gado Bridge. Naval officers on handsome white stallions and a party of royal guards rode past him shouting murder and calling for the crowds to part. Ariz dismounted and led his aged horse to the side of the bridge. Neither he nor his mount garnered any attention. They presented a dull sight, just two more figures amidst the crowd of commonplace people whose work was done for the day.
Chapter Two
Gold streaks of dawning light glinted across the hill and warmed Fedeles’s back as his black warhorse, Firaj, trotted between the breaks of sunlight with the exuberance of a playful foal. Every tree rang with the trills of newly woken songbirds. Fedeles leaned down and patted Firaj’s shoulder, thankful for the horse’s good temper at being roused to ride the empty city streets so that Fedeles could to work off the anxiety that had kept him from sleep.
Yet another nobleman had been murdered.
And this time it was a gregarious court favorite. Lord Wonena and two of his guards had been found in an alley, gutted like sides of beef. Only the day before Wonena and Fedeles had clashed—as they often did—over the upkeep of roads adjacent to both their lands. It was not a serious matter, but their tempers had flared, as Wonena numbered among the royal bishop’s ardent supporters while Fedeles championed Prince Sevanyo. Their exchange had degenerated to the usual trade of petty insults and complaints, none of which Fedeles took seriously.
But now Wonena was dead and every gossip in the city seemed intent upon feeding rumors that Fedeles had ordered the man’s killing. If Wonena’s death had been the only one attributed to Fedeles, the rumor would likely have died out in a day, but Wonena’s murder marked the third death of one of Fedeles’s court adversaries. After three killings, even Fedeles’s allies had turned suspicious eyes on him. Worse, Fedeles’s denials were beginning to sound rehearsed on account of being repeated so often.
He didn’t even need Atreau to tell him that.
He was being incriminated, most likely by his brother-in-law, Hierro Fueres, but the knowledge didn’t help him know how to combat the growing outrage and gossip at court.
Capturing the true assassin should have been the obvious solution, but there again, Fedeles felt intense uncertainty. As far as Atreau had been able to ascertain, the killings had involved an assassin so silent and fast that the fe w surviving witnesses swore he’d been unnatural. Courtiers and commoners alike speculated that the killer was some shape-shifting witch loyal to Count Radulf.
As suspicions of Count Radulf and his sister, Hylanya, grew, so did the possibility of another Labaran war. If the conflict escalated into battle, Cadeleonian soldiers would face an army of monstrous creatures, trolls and witches all led by Cadeleon’s own champions, Fedeles’s cousin Javier Tornesal and classmate Elezar Grunito. The very men who had saved Fedeles from possession by their power-hungry teacher ten years before.
Fedeles couldn’t imagine raising his voice, much less a weapon, against Javier or Elezar. Now he found himself forced to contemplate the horror of killing them for Prince Sevanyo’s sake—no, for the sake of the nation of Cadeleon itself.
The better option would be to expose the real killer. Except that Fedeles found he couldn’t stand the thought of that either. Atreau and Oasia both suspected the brutal killings were the work of Hierro Fueres’s deadliest assassin, Ariz Plunado. Fedeles knew they were probably right. The thought of how terribly Ariz suffered when Hierro bent him to his will gnawed at Fedeles’s heart. It wasn’t merely physical pain but guilt, too, that would torment Ariz, more even than the injuries he must have accumulated fighting so often against so many armed nobles and their guards in such a short time.
No, for now Fedeles would shoulder the suspicions and gossip himself. It wasn’t much to endure, and soon enough Hierro and his conspirators would have to make an overt attempt to seize the throne. Then Fedeles would have them. He already knew roughly when they planned to act and where. Hierro was readying his enthralled assassins to strike during Sevanyo’s coronation—when all the royal family would be gathered in one place. Atreau’s agents and Oasia’s informants had provided enough clues to pinpoint when the action would take place, but had not found enough evidence to bring a formal accusation of treason.
“Easy to know, hard to prevent,” Fedeles murmured to himself.
Unlike his unhinged brother-in-law, Hierro, Fedeles was constrained by both the law and Prince Sevanyo’s forgiving nature. Sevanyo refused to believe that his brother, Nugalo, or any of his sons would carry through with an act of treason. That left Fedeles with no option but to wait until they implicated themselves beyond any doubt.
Fedeles’s shadow fluttered as if disturbed by an uneasy wind.
Beneath him, Firaj tensed, pricking up his ears. Fedeles listened too and heard the sound of horses, riding fast and not far from them. He felt the faintest hum pass through the string of red stones he wore beneath his shirt. Like Firaj, the spells of Meztli’s shield were sensitive to his agitation.
Up on the small rise ahead of them a flurry of crows suddenly swirled up into the pale sky, shrieking in alarm. Fedeles urged Firaj toward them. He paused a moment, taking in the quiet, shaded grounds of his great house and then the tight formation of armed riders charging from the wide city road toward his home. The riders wore the colors of the royal bishop’s guard and numbered at least twenty. At this hour only two sleepy men kept watch over the gates to Fedeles’s home. They couldn’t hope to repel the small cavalry charging them. Nor could Fedeles; he wore no armor and the only weapon at hand was his hunting knife.
Still, he urged Firaj ahead, and the big warhorse responded at once, breaking into an all-out gallop. Clods of earth and grass flew up in their wake as they tore across the field and raced to intercept the royal bishop’s guards. A hedge of boxwood blocked their path. Fedeles leaned forward and Firaj bounded. Fedeles felt his shadow spread out and catch the air like the wings of the crows circling them. He and Firaj soared over the hedge; Fedeles’s heart pounded in thunderous unison with his horse’s. They took the ground running.
In a flash they reached the pebbled drive that led to the black gates at the front of Fedeles’s great house. Fedeles caught sight of his two watchmen’s terrified faces as he drew Firaj to a halt in front of the gates. One of the men moved to allow him inside before the royal bishop’s guards reached them, but Fedeles shook his head.
“Lock them and keep them locked,” he commanded the elder of the two retainers, then to the younger he said, “Call for the house guards and rouse my lady wife.”
At once the young man pelted back toward the quiet darkness of the sprawling mansion. Fedeles immediately turned his attention to the riders charging him. They’d narrowed their formation approaching him four abreast, and though they rode fast, Fedeles noted that none of them had yet drawn a weapon. Beneath him Firaj tensed and snorted. He was terrified, and yet he stood ready to charge if commanded to do so.
Fedeles ran his hand along Firaj’s glossy neck, trying to reassure the warhorse that he would do all he could to protect him and his household, even if it meant releasing the murderous curse inhabiting his shadow. If he had to kill every last rider facing them, then he would.
But only if he had to.
The royal bishop’s men drew near and Fedeles recognized the man at the head of the formation. Blunt-featured, black-haired, and strapping, Captain Yago carried himself with a self-righteous air. Fedeles knew that over the last decade Yago had more than earned his reputation as the royal bishop’s butcher. According to Atreau, the captain had even murdered Irsea, an elderly Haldiim woman and the last Bahiim remaining in the city. After that, and while presumably occupied scouring the city for Hylanya Radulf, Yago had found the time to hang an herb girl and a midwife for allegedly practicing witchcraft. His recent authority over the Haldiim District of the city had led to an unprecedented number of Haldiim citizens deserting the capital for far-flung Anacleto.
Now Fedeles watched the man’s smug expression shift to annoyance as he discerned Fedeles’s presence in the shifting morning light.
Fedeles glowered at Yago in return, holding his gaze and willing him to a halt. Again Fedeles felt a shudder pass from his body and ripple through his shadow. He couldn’t be certain, but it seemed to him that Yago blanched. His mount stumbled slightly and tossed its head. Yago stroked the animal’s neck, calming it.
Then Yago signaled the men behind him to slow and reined his own gold stallion to a trot. He halted less than a yard from Fedeles and took his time to look Fedeles over disdainfully. His self-assured smile returned.
“You’re up early, my lord. Trouble sleeping?” Yago inquired.
Did he imagine that guilt had kept Fedeles from his bed, or was he simply pleased to notice Fedeles’s lack of guards and weapons?
“I was enjoying the peace of the dawn chorus,” Fedeles replied. “I don’t imagine that would mean much of anything to a person such as yourself.”
“There you would be correct, my lord.” Yago reached into his coat and drew out a rolled sheet of thick paper. He moved as if to hand the paper to Fedeles but paused a moment, casting a wary glare at something just behind Fedeles’s shoulder. Fedeles spared a glance back, expecting to see his house guards—he could hear them with their pikes and swords gathering at the gates—but then he noted the crows perched atop the iron finials. Perhaps a hundred of the glossy black birds, and all of them still and silent as statues.
Irsea’s familiars—vessels that allowed her soul to remain in the realm of the living even after Yago had murdered her.
Though he’d not known Irsea or her crows long, Fedeles found the sight of them heartening. Particularly since their presence appeared to unnerve Captain Yago.
“I’ve never had any use for birds except on my plate,” Captain Yago snapped.
Fedeles imagined that had he been here, Atreau would have offered some witty rejoinder about the captain eating crow, but as it was, Fedeles simply held his ground and demanded the captain’s business.
“I’ve a summons commanding you to answer before the royal bishop for the murder of Lord Numes, minister of His Highness’s navies.”
“Lord Numes?” Fedeles didn’t have to feign his surprise. He’d not even known the minister of the navy had been killed. “When did this happen?”
“Right now. I’m holding the summons here in my hand!” Yago snapped.
