Grace of the Light Page 2

  As did the sleepwalking.

  He rose, standing amongst his family, they were used to his nocturnal wanderings and paid him no heed. He walked among them placing his feet carefully, never stumbling, as if using a second sense. He left the cluster of warm bodies and went out amongst the moonlit ruins. He came to a wall with a recess and carvings. The carvings had always intrigued him but he had never been so close. His sleepwalking, driven by a deeper curiosity, brought him to the etched stonework.

  Liss sat in the recess its cold stone against his skin. The wind caught his hair and felt cool against his face. He had survived seventeen winters, his lithe frame was strong, his eyes and mind quick and intelligent. He was on the verge of remembering something, he grew closer to it when asleep, it teased him, always just out of his reach.

  He thought in shapes, colours and smells. He sensed danger and great power somewhere deep within these ruins. Power that was not for his pack, power that was ancient and dark. The ruins were bathed in traces of this power, the ground whispered of it, the empty windows hinted at it. He felt it in his bones. Tomorrow they were leaving Clover Valley and heading to Whistlemount; he wanted to linger amongst the carvings a little longer. This was the closest he would get to men for the next six months, these carvings represented something of them. Something he could not understand.

  His ran his hands along the carvings, his left hand caught on a decorative section of the carving and to his surprise it moved, revealing a hole. Without thinking he put his finger into the hole and found a catch. He pulled on the stone trigger and the earth trembled slightly beneath him.

  The ground fell away nearby revealing steps leading down into darkness. Liss sniffed the air and lifted himself out from the recess, he approached the first step and gingerly placed his foot on it. He tilted his head and blinked. An owl called out, the stars shone on the ruins casting cold shadows. His breath misted the air and, fortified in his armour of sleepwalking, he descended the steps without fear.

  His calloused feet took him down the ancient stair into a chamber. The walls bore more intricate carvings, precise, interwoven. Liss reached the bottom and saw two large statues guarding the entrance to a room beyond. Moonlight barely penetrated to this level, Liss used his other senses. Everything told him he was safe, whoever had made this place was long gone.

  Long dead.

  He advanced between the two towering statues and entered a long, narrow hall. Stone columns flanked him as he walked along the marble floor towards a raised area. He heard sound behind him and recognised the scent, Yellow Eyes was here, watching, protecting him. Liss reached the corner of the room and stopped.

  Silence.

  Then Yellow Eyes growled, baring her teeth. Darkness congealed around Liss, like a bruise. He felt its cold caress, the space ahead shimmered and something stirred in the corner. He approached and entered the curtain of blackness, disappearing from view. Yellow Eyes watched the spot intently and crouched down letting out a whimper, her flanks twitching.

  Liss reached out and felt the darkness, he swam through its embrace. A cocoon, a chrysalis of sorts, protection against the ravages of time. He was the key, summoned to unlock a secret, deliver its message to the world. He reached the mummified remains after three heartbeats. The body was wrapped in a golden fabric. Liss looked at its face, the eye sockets were filled with gemstones. Wisps of hair fell away from the skull, leathery skin remained, stretched over bone.

  It was a woman. The power he had sensed earlier came from her, from this ravaged corpse. Liss lifted his hand and reached out to touch the cloth. A hiss came from her tight lips, her expression caught in a tight rictus. Liss’s hand found the cloth and pulled, it unravelled and fell from her body. As soon as the cloth came away her form began to change, her desiccated flesh blushed with life.

  In seconds a young woman stood before Liss, naked and whole, except for her eyes. Gone were the gemstones, in their place a living blackness. Her skin gleamed with its own luminescence. Her fingers twitched, Liss noticed her jewellery, her fingers bedecked in rings. She wore a golden necklace extending to her waist, it shimmered, Liss saw it move and realised dully it was a snake. The rings around her fingers had become smaller writhing serpents.

  He stood staring blankly, in his veil of sleep. He felt no threat and waited. The woman tilted her head and looked down at him. Her voice whispered in his head.

  “You have done well, my brave one, you’ve released me from my prison. I only need one more thing from you.” She reached out, Liss stepped into her arms.

  Liss woke the next morning curled up in the long grass of the ruins. The scent of the pack clung to him. Something was not right, he blinked and rubbed his eyes, sniffing the air.

  The pack was gone. Yellow Eyes was gone.

  He was alone.

  Chapter 3

  Hell’s Breath

  “What’ll we do with her?”

  “Well it’s them that wants her.”

  “I’ll have nothing to do with them.”

  “She’s a Stolen, maybe we can make some coin from her carcass. Some of those foreigners would pay good gold for her skills…”

  “No… brand her so they know it’s us that’s handed her over… they’ll just have to owe us. Brand and bag her. We’ll leave her in the usual place.”

  “Right. If you say so.”

  Grace’s lips parted in a silent scream as the branding iron burned her arm with the sign of the snake. She passed out, away from her world of pain. The Mother would take her, hold her and let her pass to the otherside… if it was Her will.

  It was not Her will.

  Grace woke up, cold, wrists bound, arm on fire, a sack on her head. Apart from the incandescent pain in her arm, what assaulted her most was the smell. She knew instantly where they had dumped her, the city sewers. How long had she been there? When would they come? They would be able to smell her seared flesh miles away. Why had the Mother forsaken her? How could she serve Her, now she was tainted? She would never be able to serve with the Sisters of Light again. She was redundant, useless, yet here she was, still drawing breath in all this human waste.

  Sound came from her right, she stiffened. Maybe the after men and their lizards would show mercy and kill her straight away.

  “Don’t move, do as I say. The after men are close.”

  Hands searched for her wrists, her bindings. A desperate fumble, the bite of a blade, her bindings fell away. Blood rushed back to her fingers followed by more pain. She moved her head back and forwards, fingers fiddled at her neck and the sack was pulled off. Grace blinked, wincing at the stench, she held her hands in front of her face barely seeing their outline. A shadow moved on her right.

  “Come on Stolen, follow me. It’ll be close, listen carefully. If you fall behind I’ll not come back for you. Let’s go.”

  Something woke in Grace. Here was a chance. She ignored her screaming muscles, the pain, the cold. She focused on the shadow that had spoken to her giving it her complete attention. She followed it, crawling when it crawled, stopping when it stopped and, after what seemed like hours, climbing when it climbed.

  The water level in the sewer was rising, it was raining above. Grace sent a prayer to Falinor to protect them against a flash flood. She shuddered and dug into her reserves to climb the final rungs of the rusting ladder. Something reached up from the city waste below her, something long and slender. She felt it tapping blindly on the ladder, searching for her.

  The lizards had found them. They knew.

  They would not take her, not now. With a final burst of energy she threw herself out of the shaft and onto the street. Heavy rain stung her face, her breathing was ragged, her body shook.

  “Filthy lizards, bastards should go back to hell’s breath where they belong,” her rescuer shoved the grate back over the sewer opening. The metallic tapping vanished.

  “Wait. Who are you? What’s your name? Why have you helped me?” Grace rasped.

  She heard a snort
followed by a phlegmy spit. “You don’t want to know. I was paid to get you this far, my job’s done. You’re on your own.” The shadow turned and melted into the alley. Grace’s heart pounded, she lay for a few minutes her mind blank. Finally, she rolled onto her side and stood.

  She looked round and began to follow the alley towards an intersection, a larger thoroughfare. Perhaps she could find help there… the city guard? Her knees buckled, she managed to catch herself. Who was she kidding? She was a known assassin, her cover blown, the city guard would kill her on sight. After her last job the whole city would know her face, she was dead, a price on her head. Her tongue probed her teeth, those sewer rats had even found her poison. They had robbed her of an honourable death.

  She was here, alive. Her training kicked in.

  Get on with it. Deal with it. Use the pain.

  Grace slunk along the alley and stopped just short of the intersection. She waited, watching, absorbing what she saw, looking for an opening, a solution.

  A figure in a hooded cloak stepped round the corner and stood right in front of her.

  “You’ve taken your time. Here, put this on, walk with me. Talk to no one, do exactly as I say and you will live.”

  Grace hesitated then took the cloak. She noticed simple details, the cloak was made from Weiss wool, the best there was, not only would it keep her warm, it would dry her. She put it on, pulled the hood up and immediately felt warmer. With the warmth came alertness, the figure was a woman, she noticed the braids on the woman’s cloak and saw its purple colour. A noblewoman, her rescuer was highborn or served a highborn.

  She decided not to question her good fortune. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to spring her from the sewers. She would ride this wave of fate and see where it took her. The woman grasped her by the hand and pulled her into the street. It was after midnight, they were near the river, the air was damp, full of the river’s smell, a mixture of human waste and chill emptiness. Mist clung to the streets. Grace allowed herself to be led, more details revealed themselves to her, the woman wore fine leather gloves and a delicate perfume followed her.

  Grace recognised Blackmount Friary. They approached its chapel from the rear, through the graveyard. The ground was wet, treacherous, Grace almost fell into a freshly dug grave, she winced reaching down to check her ankle. Nothing broken. Her rescuer pulled her on. They reached the back door, the woman paused, listening, then knocked lightly. A bolt slid on the far side, the door opened a crack, candlelight flickered from within.

  “We’re back. I have the Stolen.”

  They entered the friary, the woman locking the door behind them. Grace did not want to take down her hood, she felt safe wrapped in the cloak. She stood and waited in the hall, her rescuer disappeared ahead.

  Moments later she heard voices.

  “How do you know we can trust her?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Her loyalty’s to the Sisters of Light, no one, nothing else.”

  “You think I don’t know that Fai? We’ve had this conversation before. Leave it. She doesn’t have allegiance to the Script, that’s a very useful thing these days. Think about it…”

  Grace’s mind honed in on the first clue; her rescuer’s voice, Fai.

  “I still think we should put her in restraints. In case she falls back on her… skills.”

  “You know assassins only act by decree of their order. Her code is her restraint, leave her hands free.”

  Fai and a new woman emerged from the doorway ahead. “Grace of the Light, these are dangerous times. We need your services. You have an advantage; many people think you’re dead. We can use this and if we are successful, we can give you a new life. Or you can turn your back on this chance and walk out of that door. What do you say?”

  Grace took off her hood and looked at the two women. “The Mother didn’t call me, it’s not my time yet. She still has work for me. Yes, I’ll take your help. I’m grateful for your shelter.”

  Fai’s face remained inscrutable, the other woman nodded and spoke. “Well then, that’s good. Follow me, you look as if you could do with a hot meal and a drink.”

  Grace bowed, she had used her training to separate mind and body. At the mention of food and drink her defences fell, hunger and thirst returned with a vengeance. She could not remember the last time she had eaten.

  The new woman turned and walked through the door. They were in the chapel, she crossed the flagstones and opened another door on the far side. They entered a walled garden adjoining a quadrangle. The woman stopped and turned to Grace.

  “I forget my manners. I’ve not introduced myself, Grace of the Light. My name’s Aelisa, I am first maiden to Bright Feather. Your rescuer, Fai, had to leave she has business elsewhere.” She paused for a second, searching Grace’s face for a reaction.

  Grace did not react. She knew of Bright Feather, Watcher of the Realm. The Sisters of the Light were above human intrigues. Only the Mother held sway over her heart. Still, curiosity pricked her. What did Bright Feather want with her, a Stolen? Bright Feather had her own assassins, she was known to be ruthless.

  Aelisa turned, satisfied and continued walking. Grace followed, unsure if she had been tested. Time would tell, she would ride the unfolding storm and see where it took her.

  For she was Grace of the Light and the Mother was guiding her.

  Chapter 4

  Embers

  Tuath had forgotten everything.

  He had lost himself in this godforsaken town, lost himself to easy money and drink. Fighting was the only time he felt alive, here he was again, in a fight to the death with this bear of a man.

  Money and gold. He knew tonight’s takings would see him through another week of women and drink. He could not break the cycle, he hated himself. He would milk it as long as he could, as long as his body held out. If his luck ended he would die, he did not care. He cared for nothing, not even revenge. The Simulacrum had taken his clan, his family, his wife, killed them all. He’d been away hunting when they had come, in the night, when his people had been asleep.

  He was alone, without his family, cut adrift, waiting to die. He did not deserve revenge, he did not deserve pity; he deserved contempt.

  Tuath spoke with his fists; over three rounds he worked his brutal craft on the bear man. Small always defeated large, if you knew how to press the advantage, fleet of foot, swift to deal damage. Tuath took down his opponent. The last blow, a vicious side kick to the man’s knee, toppled him. The bear man fell to the ground screaming in pain, bloodied. Tuath slipped in and crushed his windpipe with a savage blow.

  It was over.

  The crowd roared, money passed hands; a good night for the bet takers. The odds had been against Tuath on this one, his opponent brought in especially for the fight, a sure thing. Except Loki backed the underdog. Tuath spat blood onto the floor and went over to Dreel on the ring side who was holding a bucket of water. Tuath took the bucket and emptied it over his head.

  “Steady… women go for the blood. You don’t want to wash it all off, do you killer?” Dreel slapped Tuath on the back. “A good win, a good kill. Difficult to top that, they’ll be talking about that one for at least a week. Here, take this, have fun, you deserve it, Loki’s good fortune smiles on us tonight.” Dreel crossed Tuath’s hand with silver then walked off into the crowd.

  Tuath felt empty as he always did after a fight. Bear man was dragged away, his body would be buried in an unmarked grave. Tuath reflected; kings, queens and beggars were all buried in the same dirt. Death; the great leveller, royal flesh rotted the same as every other poor bastard, a comforting thought. Life was a form of slow death, his job was to hasten the departure of others to make money. An honest living, he spat blood feeling a loose tooth where his opponent’s fist had caught his jaw. His mind was already on drink and spending time with Alandria’s new girls.

  Tuath strode up to the innkeeper flicking him a coin. “Tell me when this runs out, there’s plenty more where th
at came from. Bring me Barissian wine, I need to celebrate.” The man nodded, Tuath was a good patron, his fights were popular and he brought customers to the inn.

  Tuath needed to forget, drinking and rutting helped. Distraction from the guilt and shame. He was pissing his life away, he didn’t care. He’d wake up in the gutter or the whore house, nothing would be different but at least he’d have had a few hours of oblivion.

  The next day Tuath woke in a strange room. His head was pounding, his stomach burning, his mouth was dry as parchment. The room was bare, except for his bed and a pitcher of water on the floor; he drank his fill. He went to the door and tried the handle, it was locked. He noticed a hatch in the door at floor level.

  “Hey, anyone out there?” he shouted, banging on the door.

  Nothing.

  He went to the slit window and looked out onto a surprising scene. The Field of Flags lay below him. The colours of over a hundred flags flapping in the wind. His mind raced to understand, he’d never seen the flags from this angle. He had caught glimpses of the flags through the Imperial City gates. He was now behind the flags, looking down on them.

  He was in one of the castle towers.

  Impossible.

  His mind was playing tricks on him. He’d been slipped some dream powders by Alandria’s pleasure girls, that was it. He would wait for their effect to wear off, he returned to the bed. Sleep it off… he’d wake in the gutter or the whore house in a few hours. Dream powders… how had he been tricked? He never went near that poison.

  Tuath closed his eyes waiting for sleep to take him. His headache kept him company, sleep did not come. He lay there, eyes closed, mind blank, his old thoughts returned, old pain with memories. His brief respite from the past was over. He was back in the land of guilt… he knew then he was not dreaming.