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  Her eyes traveled to the line of trees. The fog was slowly burning off as the sun rose in the sky. It would be a cold, clear day, heralding the winter months to come. Large pine trees and cypress crowded the bank, thick with untamed foliage, arching countless meters above the river and branching into tall canopies overhead. Bright green willows leaned over the Little Rain, trailing their branches in the murky water. Birdsong filled her ears: the shrieks of meadowlarks and the sharp tat-tat-tat of woodpeckers, even the coo of an owl perched somewhere in the dark branches.

  She couldn’t divine the source of the smell and wrinkled her nose again, sniffing the air, reminded of her venture two years ago through Fennbog swamp, where the ground reeked of sulfur and mold. We’re not far from Fennbog now, are we? she wondered.

  No, actually she didn’t think they were anywhere near Fennbog, but that didn’t explain that rancid smell of rotting plants.

  Burn waved to her as she continued climbing down the rigging.

  * * *

  The mess hall of the Dawn Seeker doubled as a game room and meeting room, depending on the time of day. In one corner, a series of steep wooden steps led down to the galley, the ship’s kitchen. Sora sat down at one of the long wooden tables and ate without disturbance. Breakfast was a humble affair of red beans, rye bread and two strips of fatty bacon. The breakfast hour had already passed and most of the crew were either resting from the night shift or manning the ship. Only two other Dracians inhabited the hall—Joan, a red-haired woman who sat with her legs boldly splayed out on a bench, and another man who Sora didn’t know by name. The two spoke in quiet tones over cups of hot tea.

  Just as Sora raised the last bite of food to her mouth, a hand grabbed her wrist. She gasped and spilled the last of her beans.

  “Mom!” she exclaimed.

  Lorianne stood above her daughter, a steady, searching gaze and five feet of fortitude. “You unwrapped your bandage,” she said, taking note of Sora’s scarred left hand.

  Sora yanked her wrist free, rubbing it in irritation. “Well I feel fine,” she said defensively.

  “The skin needs to toughen up. What if you tear it again? That rigging is rough on hands.”

  Sora started to protest, but Lori whipped out a strip of gauze and grabbed her hand, swiftly wrapping it. Sora waited impatiently. She didn’t like being fussed over. She could take care of herself.

  “What kind of Healer would I be if I let my own daughter neglect her wounds?” Lori muttered as she worked.

  Sora gritted her teeth. “You’re overly concerned,” she insisted.

  “And you’re pouting,” her mother returned.

  Sora sighed. She wished she knew her mother just a little better; then she would feel more free to speak her mind.

  She had known Lori for less than two years. When Sora was a baby, her mother had left her in the care of a rich nobleman, hoping she would be raised with all the wealth and privileges that her own blood couldn’t afford. His own seed was useless, her mother explained. But he lived in denial. A man’s pride, you see. So it was easy for me to convince him that you were his daughter.

  According to her mother, Lord Fallcrest married Lorianne within a few weeks of meeting. Eventually he discovered Lori’s common bloodline and gave her an ultimatum—either disappear, or face the King’s law. She was forced to leave her baby behind, however, as Lord Fallcrest still believed the child to be his own.

  He always doubted me, Sora thought, caught up in memories. She would never know for sure if he saw her as his true daughter. He always remained distant, especially in those final years, traveling often to the City of Crowns.

  She thought back to her Blooming ceremony and the end of her stepfather’s life. The Blooming should have attracted hopeful young suitors. Instead, her stepfather was murdered and she was kidnapped and taken on an unanticipated adventure—which eventually led her to Lorianne’s doorstep.

  It all left a strange taste in her mouth. She didn’t always understand her mother’s decision to leave her with the nobleman. For seventeen years she believed she was a Fallcrest, a noblewoman born into Second Tier nobility. It was hard for her to see herself any other way.

  “Come,” Lorianne said, interrupting her daughter’s thoughts and releasing Sora’s freshly bandaged hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “A walk?” Sora asked, nonplussed. There weren’t many places to go for a walk aboard the Dawn Seeker. She had been circling the top deck for weeks now.

  Lori nodded firmly and waited for Sora to climb down from the wooden bench. Then they walked together out the door, arm in arm. “I’m composing a letter to Cameron,” her mother explained. “I thought you might like to add something to it.”

  Sora shrugged. She doubted her mother would go to all this trouble to compose a letter. No, something else was occupying Lori’s mind, and thanks to Burn, she thought she knew what it might be. Maybe, hopefully, the whole thing won’t come up.

  Once outside, they circled the deck slowly, their arms linked. The two women had similar physical characteristics, even if they were eighteen years apart in age. They shared the same blond-colored hair, her mother’s straw-straight and worn neatly above her shoulders, Sora’s hair in long, heavy waves down her back. Sora had her mother’s blue eyes, if a little darker, less like the sky and more like the deep, cool water of a lake, a wider mouth, a slightly more pronounced chin, and a few inches more in height. Still, anyone who looked at them could see they were related.

  As they walked, several Dracians hailed Lori with various greetings.

  “Fair morning, Healer!” one called.

  “And the day just got fairer!” another added.

  “Your hair is like the dawn!”

  Sora resisted the urge to sigh. Healers commanded a lot of respect from the different races. Sometimes it was useful—but the Dracians’ blatant flattery grated on her nerves.

  “Ahoy, mistress!” another sailor hailed Lori as they rounded the aft of the ship. “Do you have time for an appointment this afternoon? Got a terrible fungus on my toe.”

  Lori nodded graciously. “Of course,” she said. “Come by the sickroom after lunch.”

  The Dracian dropped the rope in his hands and gave an exaggerated salute. Their race came from a union of Wind and Fire, and they were theatrical to the bone. Sora grinned at his antics, but the sailor didn’t return her smile, and instead turned quickly back to his job.

  Her mother noticed the interaction. Lori spoke casually as they continued to walk. “I’ve heard some strange rumors flying around the ship,” she began.

  Sora considered a number of responses, but remained silent.

  Her mother gave her a sideways glance. “The Dracians like to embellish,” she offered. “But it does make me wonder….”

  “Rumors…?” Sora fumbled. “I’m not sure….” Then, just as they rounded another corner of the deck, she came face-to-face with the last person she wanted to see and almost tripped over her own feet.

  Crash stood there, with his shirt in his hands and damp hair. A series of wet footprints led to a large water basin on the deck. By the looks of him, he had just rinsed off. Lori recalled his fierce regimen of exercises in the early morning fog. He looked fit and bristling, his shoulders straight and wide, his arms powerful, his chest hard and defined. His hair, the color of deep-forest moss, fell in front of his eyes. His face always reminded her of a wolf or a jackal, sharp and cunning, with a straight nose, a defined jaw and firm mouth that rarely cracked a smile.

  Sora’s heart thudded awkwardly in her chest, missing a half-beat; she came to a dead halt, her mother pausing beside her. She became aware of a lull in the activity of the ship; a few nearby Dracians cast curious looks in her direction. Don’t feed the rumors, she told herself firmly. She raised her head a notch and gave the assassin a warm smile.

  “Training?” she asked, trying not to stare at the water droplets trickling down his chest.

  He raised a dark eyebrow.

&nb
sp; “Walking?” he asked in return.

  Sora flushed.

  He pulled his black shirt over his damp body and turned to walk away. Sora shot a glance at her mother—who watched both of them closely.

  In an attempt to appear normal, Sora tried to speak again. “Uh…nice day out, isn’t it?” she asked, stepping after him. She winced. Much too forced!

  He glanced at her briefly as he kept walking. “It’s fine.” His voice held a rough edge. Only a month ago, he was imprisoned and tortured by Harpy soldiers. They placed a sunstone collar around his neck; the light of the stone had burned into his flesh. The scar still showed on his collarbone, and his voice had never fully healed.

  Sora didn’t feel like giving up quite yet, so continued, right on his heels. “The fog burned off,” she offered. “Nothing like a clear winter sky!”

  Crash looked upward. “Funny thing about fog,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “It plays tricks on your ears. Sounds tend to carry.”

  “Oh?” she repeated softly.

  “Aye,” Crash murmured. “Though I suppose Burn knew that, hmmm?”

  Sora opened her mouth, then shut it abruptly. Her footsteps came to a halt.

  Crash continued walking down the side of the ship, heading toward the galley. She watched him. Her hands slowly curled into fists. He knows, she thought. He knows about the rumors, and so does the whole damn ship. Humiliating. She had the sudden urge to throw herself into the river.

  Her mother’s hand suddenly landed on her shoulder. “Here,” Lori said, steering her toward the railing. Sora leaned up against it, swallowing the frustration in her throat.

  Lorianne cast a sharp look at the gawking Dracians, who hurriedly ducked their heads. Her hand moved restlessly around Sora’s upper back, massaging the stiff muscles. “You’re awfully tense.”

  “I’m fine,” Sora gritted out.

  “What happened between you two?” Lori asked calmly. “You barely speak to one another. You’ve been out of sorts since the Lost Isles.”

  “Nothing,” Sora repeated. “Nothing happened.”

  “You can tell me about it, you know, if there was a disagreement, a fight of some kind….” Lori hesitated. “Or if he hurt you….”

  “Lori!” Sora snapped, turning to glare at her. At times, the word mother still felt strange on her tongue. “How could you think that of Crash? Just because he’s an assassin doesn’t make him violent.” Goddess, it sounded desperate even to her own ears—of course assassins were violent, especially the Sixth Race. They were creatures of Darkness and Fire. They fed on chaos. She tried again. “You don’t actually believe the Dracians, do you?”

  Lori gave her a searching look. “No,” her mother finally said. “But I worry about you. Crash is…not very approachable. The Sixth Race is difficult to read.” She paused again and continued carefully. “We have a lot to consider about him, now that the Shade is trying to summon the Dark God….”

  Sora shook her head. “You can’t blame Crash for that,” she said.

  “I don’t,” her mother replied swiftly. “But we don’t know much about him. We don’t know his previous alliances….”

  “Then you believe the rumors?” Sora balked. “You believe Crash would hurt me?”

  “No, I just want you to be cautious!” her mother exclaimed.

  Sora frowned stubbornly. Her mother’s lack of trust bothered her more than anything else. Did the entire ship see her this way? As a young girl in the thrall of a ruthless assassin? Who knew what the Dracians were really saying? Burn said “abuse,” but perhaps he had tried to soften the blow. Used, she heard in her mind. Taken advantage of. Raped. Any of these concepts could be part of the rumor mill.

  Her mother touched her arm, and Sora couldn’t abide the sympathy, the distraught look, that crept into Lorianne’s gaze.

  “I’m not a defenseless victim!” she finally exclaimed. “Crash saved my life countless times! I can’t believe you would doubt him. Just keep out of my business, would you? I know who my friends are.” Then she turned quickly on her heel and stalked across the deck, thumping her feet as hard as she could, wishing she could snap each plank in half. She was relieved when her mother didn’t follow her.

  * * *

  Deep underground, Krait knelt on one knee and bowed her head. Above her, the sound of the ongoing churn of gears grated through heavy granite stone.

  Shadows filled the domed, circular chamber. Summoned by Grandmaster Cerastes, she was transported under the earth by a shadow portal, an instant doorway. She didn’t know where this chamber resided, perhaps deep beneath the City of Crowns, or perhaps buried under a mountain range hundreds of miles away. It made no difference. Cerastes had called, and she had come.

  To her left knelt another assassin, clothed similarly in plain black garb: a member of The Shade. She had yet to meet him. Cerastes kept their order hidden from the world, even from each other. Higher-up members rarely gathered together except for training or to study the Dark God’s lore. She wasn’t sure why Cerastes had summoned them both, but as she raised her head, she thought she might know the answer.

  At the center of the chamber hovered an eerie, nightmarish apparition. The creature made her skin crawl and adrenaline rush through her blood. It seemed molded out of mist and shadow. A tattered black cloak was wrapped around its evanescent form, creating the illusion of a body. Beneath its hood, only empty space stared out. It shifted back and forth, flickering in the air, as though it might vanish completely.

  A circle of fine chalk on the ground kept the creature contained. Krait didn’t know much about magic, but she knew this was an ancient spell taken from The Book of the Named. Her master had imprisoned this thing for his own dark purposes.

  “Cobra tells me that the Viper is indeed alive and has returned to the mainland,” Cerastes remarked from behind them. He stood to their backs, though the chamber seemed filled by his presence, as foreboding as the wraith. One long, calloused hand rested on each of their shoulders, connecting the two assassins. Krait forced herself not to shudder beneath his touch. “For the past month, Cobra and his team of savants have kept watch over the minor tributaries branching from the Crown’s Rush. He tells me the Viper and his ship have returned from the ocean.”

  Her heart quickened at Cerastes’ words. She first encountered the Viper almost six months ago in the port city of Delbar. Before that, Cerastes’ infamous protegé was thought dead. Their fight was fast and violent, and she had barely escaped with her life.

  Then Krait felt a twinge of uncertainty—almost jealousy. The Viper was her discovery. So she dared to speak. “Master,” she murmured, “you assigned me to watch for him at the gates of The City of Crowns—”

  “And Cobra found him first,” Cerastes cut her off. “We can’t afford to wait and let him slip past our ranks unnoticed. Winter solstice will soon be upon us. I must ensure that the Viper arrives with the weapons on time. And if we can persuade him to do so willingly…even better.”

  Krait ground her teeth. Her thoughts made it imperative that she speak. “He has more than one weapon?”

  “Yes,” Cerastes said. “He carries the sacred spearhead and sword hilt. He has already killed the bloodmage who initiated the plague. A pity, but not detrimental to our plans.” His voice turned deceptively soft. “Does that ease your mind?”

  Krait bowed lower and pressed her lips shut. Clearly, she had overstepped her boundaries.

  “You and Cobra have been of great service these past weeks,” Cerastes continued. “With The Book of the Named, I’ve been able to harness the last of the wraiths, the keeper of the third sacred weapon.”

  Krait’s eyes slid over to the phantom, which gave off a cold, deathly energy—unnerving, even to one of the Shade’s elite.

  “The Viper travels with a group of others,” Cerastes explained. “We have yet to discern if they are a threat. I want to see what they’re capable of. To that end, you and Cobra shall be my trusted eyes and
ears.”

  Krait’s gaze went to Cobra's kneeling form. He was a slight man, narrow-shouldered and unassuming. A long scar mutilated half his visible face. A black cowl obscured his nose, mouth and lower features. His green eyes remained focused intently—almost fervently—on the stone floor.

  This time, Cerastes’ silence seemed to encourage questions.

  “Exactly what do you wish from us, Grandmaster?” she asked softly.

  “Observe them from a distance. I want to know what Viper’s allies are capable of.”

  “Capable of killing the bloodmage,” Cobra offered. His voice sounded nasally and thin, as though he spoke through a broken nose.

  “Yes, but what else?” Cerastes intoned. “Knowledge is a weapon. We cannot be taken off-guard.” The Grandmaster released their shoulders and began pacing around the outer circle of the chamber. Perfectly black hair trailed to his waist, blending with his dark robes. A heavy gold chain with the emblem of a boar’s head upon it, the human king’s royal seal, hung around his neck. Only recently did he begin wearing it, though Krait didn’t know why. Cerastes kept much of his doings secret, sharing only what was needed to know for a mission. She only knew that he tended to some mysterious business in The City of Crowns.

  Her Grandmaster paused at the side of the circle. “I wanted you both to see this creature from the Dark God’s realm,” he said, his voice echoing around the chamber. “A masterfully honed piece of magic. Is the wraith not beautiful?”

  Krait raised her eyes slowly, gazing at the phantom. “Your power is unrivaled,” she murmured.

  Cerastes sneered. “This creature is not my work,” he corrected. “It was summoned from the Dark God’s realm…but that is unimportant now. Do you see its weapon?” Cerastes stepped very close to the barrier of dried blood. His face came into full view: gaunt, angular cheeks, a narrow jaw, deep-set eyes and a stern nose. Subtle lines marred his brow and lips. His form was lean and powerful beneath his robes, his muscles taut and defined over decades of vicious training. He looked capable of cruelty.