King of Assassins: The Elven Ways: Book Three (48 page)

Nutmeg didn’t answer. Hanging her head down, she caught sight of the lower trail . . . and raised her head slowly, as five Vaelinars slipped in silently to surround them. She let loose a pungent curse word and Verdayne froze.

“There’s no running,” Tressandre ild Fallyn said, slipping a hood from her hair, freeing silken tresses, and smiling, her eyes not warming but staying alert and focused on her prey as she stepped forward from her escort.

When Verdayne turned, he did so in one smooth movement that left him with his arms out, a bladed barrier between them and Nutmeg. The sun shone after the storm, the wind dropped to the barest of warming breezes, and the Vaelinars stank of blood.

“You can’t have him,” Nutmeg told her.

The Lady of ild Fallyn’s gaze slid over her. “Him? Are you sure? You can’t be certain.”

Nutmeg shut her mouth tightly, feeling her lips thin.

Tressandre’s eyes of jade and smoke narrowed to bore into her. “Perhaps you are. A mother knows these things, after all.” She caressed her own, barely visible bump. “That would complicate things, however. As for having him, well, I doubt you are in a spot to negotiate.”

“We’ll both die before I let you take him.”

Verdayne echoed a firm, “Stay clear.”

“Who knew the Dwellers could be so fierce?” Tressandre paced slowly, watching them, before adding, “Perhaps you have a trace of Bolger blood in you? Yes. I think that must be it. Stubborn, coarse, somewhat less than human . . . I sense it in both of you. Which makes our dear unborn prince even more of a dubious mix than we’d thought. What a shame our Jeredon hadn’t been more forward thinking before scattering his seed so hastily.”

Nutmeg could feel her face flame and she spat back, “At least it’s his seed I carry. Who knows what fathered yours.”

One of the Vaelinars surged forward, but Tressandre caught him on her forearm. “Patience, patience,” she told him. “You can tear her apart later. As for your aspersions, sturdy little breeder, no one is here to listen to them. You’ll never see your ambitions for Larandaril come to fruition, unlike this vineyard.” Tressandre looked about her momentarily, and then her gaze came to rest on the stone door behind them. “How interesting,” she murmured. “What have you hidden here? It looks most convenient for us to make our way out of the city unhindered.”

She turned to look at the last Vaelinar, hooded, who stood with sword ready in his white-knuckled hand. “Dear brother. Is there any need to backtrack our trail?”

“None at all,” Alton answered, sweeping his own hood back. “Our dear cousin has his orders and will be following them handily, I trust. We can make our way to the battlefield directly. Or home.”

“Hmmmm.” Tressandre swept her consideration over Nutmeg, from her muddy boots to her rain-frizzed hair. “She might make it that far. If not, my plans are flexible.”

Mageborn tunnels or not, her heart sank at the notion of walking all the way to Ashenbrook, let alone the coast. It would take weeks. She swayed a bit, brushing up against Verdayne. The touch of him, tall, proud, his muscles tensed and protective gave her a bit of hope. She wasn’t alone in this. She put her chin up. Defiance bubbled inside her throat, but she swallowed it back. Better to let Tressandre think her cowed and unable to fight back, because she intended to, and intended that it be successful. “I cannot walk far,” she murmured, but put her hand on Verdayne’s back to reassure him.

Tressandre lifted and dropped a shoulder diffidently. “I might be able to persuade you, if I feel like it.” She turned her attention to the stone door. “Who can open this?”

Nutmeg pivoted. “I can,” she said firmly, and put her hand to the engravings. The door swung open to the noise of gravel being tumbled, and hinges complaining, and dark, damp air rushed out to greet them. She thought she could also smell the fresh water-and-flower scent of Rivergrace who had passed here only a few weeks ago.

“Disarm them both.” Verdayne’s body stiffened and she smiled at him. “Unless,” she added, “you wish to be left behind on the trail.”

“Try to keep them,” Alton told him, “and she gets a knife to the kidney.”

“Try to disarm me and you get one to the gullet before you can touch her.”

“Boys,” said Tressandre softly. “Stop trying to impress me. Time matters more to me than bravado.” She reached out to jerk Nutmeg’s sheath from her shoulder and tossed it scornfully behind her in one moment, and in the second, she had disarmed Verdayne before he could blink. She tossed his weapons after, brushing past them all to step into the tunnels. Crimson flushed Alton’s high cheekbones as he shoved his knife back into his belt. He kicked the weapons aside before stepping after his sister.

Verdayne put his hand on Nutmeg’s elbow, his words pitched only for her ears to catch. “Don’t worry. I won’t let them hurt our baby.”

A
CHILL IN THE SEA AIR misted over Tranta as he bundled up his signal posts for transport. He tied them tightly, not wanting a rough ride to damage the inset Jewels he had painstakingly mounted. Each of these posts held, if not the full sentience of the toppled Way, a strong echo of it, and he handled each accordingly. He looked off the cliff, out over the ocean, where a shelf of dark cloud had begun to move in swiftly as squalls could, dipping so low that he could barely tell where the ocean met the storm. Waves churned, whitecaps sailed forth from them, and kites hung on the air, calling mournfully. He stood on the highest cliff, the Jewel of Tomarq’s base, reluctant to give up her post, yet knew he must. Reluctant to return to the land, when here he could almost believe himself a kite, wings spread, hovering just off the currents of the sea. A yearning ran through him. Perhaps when the battles were over, he could convince Lara to let him sail out from the coast, to see what lay beyond it, what far islands awaited. He could use the riddle of the Raymy to convince her, for surely they came from elsewhere on Kerith, and their native lands ought to be discovered. With or without her patronage, he could go where he pleased, once the sentinel wall went up. There would be little or no maintenance, and any fool could tell if there was an invasion or not . . .

He straightened. A glimmer of movement caught his eye on the far horizon. A ship? So far out on the waves that it could scarcely be seen? It rode up and down on the troughs violently, dipping so high and so low that its timbers must be creaking loudly in protest and her sails lashed down, to keep the storm from driving her round and about in circles or snapping a mast. If it still had a mast. He narrowed his eyes, hoping to see it better. It remained an elusive speck to his vision, but Tranta remained certain it was a ship. He wondered if it would stay on its heading toward Hawthorne and what his new sentinels would make of it as friend or foe. If it could make a landing, it wouldn’t be until full dusk unless it anchored in calmer waters and waited until the light of the morrow. If he were captain, he’d wait . . . but then, he wasn’t. Not a captain of this or any other ship. Yet.

He bent to lash together another bundle, the last. The Sentinels he’d selected for the cliff he’d place over the next day or two, after shipping the others out. He’d already packed the spare fragments into a chest and sent it to the House for safekeeping, anticipating that he might be smithing more Jewel-adorned chain armor if Lara’s pieces worked well, demand coming from those fashionably adorned who also went to war. A mere handful of stones lined his pocket, giving him comfort that he probably only imagined. He had already decided that he would pick and choose his clients and the ild Fallyn would not be among them. There would be protests and possibly even threats of boycotting and such, but he planned to shrug them off by explaining the scarcity of fragments that could be set. No one knew how much of his Jewel remained intact and usable but him, and he planned on keeping that information to himself. Tomarq was more than a precious gem, and her shards were meant for more than baubles to adorn the vain. He could see her sentinel ability being replicated in a number of crucial ways.

Boots thudded to the ground behind him. Tranta turned in bewilderment, having pulled up his bridge in the early morning, and saw a man in black and silver striding toward him. His short sword glistened wetly in the afternoon light. He wore a tight smile on his young face that spread as Tranta met his expression. The levitator flexed up and down on his toes mockingly.

“Surprised? Easy to feel invulnerable when you have a drawbridge way up here.”

Obviously, he wasn’t invulnerable if he had a trespasser on his workshop grounds. “What do you want?”

“Your work.” And the ild Fallyn gave a short bow at his waist, with a flourish of his sword, already dry in the crisp sea wind.

“Then it won’t worry you if I say, over my dead body.”

“You would merely follow in the footsteps of your guard, down the slope.”

No surprise, there. Tranta thought fleetingly of the cliff’s edge at his back. He’d been sent over it once before, a great fall, one that had crippled him for a time. He doubted he would survive a second fall. Ancestors of his had not, but the Shield of Tomarq had been a demanding mistress in her time, and Tranta had often taken the climb up the nearly sheer cliff to appease both himself and her. She respected that, he thought, and possibly guarded him in her own way. She had rested nearly unassailable, a queen in her own right, and appreciated those who knew the dangers of tending to her. He knew well the heights she ruled. He wondered what the son of the Fortress ild Fallyn had in mind for him.

“No words for them? No vows of vengeance for their murder?”

“They knew their service,” he answered flatly. He would not let the killer toy with him, familiar with the bent of those who wore the black and silver. He’d never met one without a mean and sadistic streak, however civilized they pretended to be. He flicked a hand in the air.
Get on with it.

The swordsman walked a few steps to his right, short gliding steps. He stood on the throat of the cliff approach, narrowing his path, but Tranta didn’t expect him to worry about it. He, his quarry, stood dead ahead where the cliff widened, and the great gem had rested in her golden cradle which still rode the cliff’s edge because he hadn’t dismantled it yet. It still moved, silently, restlessly, side to side in its gyroscopic arc, as though the Shield were yet enthroned within it. All that gold, glinting hard as the sun lowered in the skies toward the storm front, which had not yet shielded its last, glittering rays. The cradle had to be sending spears of light into the ild Fallyn’s face. Tranta sidestepped himself, so that he would not shadow the other’s vision.

“You carry a bit of the ild Fallyn look to your face, but not much. If I had to guess—and it seems I do—you’re a result of their breeding back program, for purity in their bloodlines. You might be, by some stretch of the imagination, a second cousin or so.”

The man’s jaw tightened and his mouth twisted. “My name is Nahaal, and they call me cousin.”

“Ah. I am Tranta Istlanthir, and my House calls me son.”

The tip of the other’s sword jerked upward in his hand.

Touchy.
He would remember that. “I have sworn the ild Fallyn as my enemy.”

Nahaal said, “Conveniently, I will be your death.” Nahaal’s ears twitched. He wore his hair tucked behind them, points proudly exposed, as if declaring the strength of his blood. He had never been told, Tranta warranted, that their twitch served as a tell to his intent.

Tranta shook his head slowly. He waved a hand about him, indicating the remains of the Shield of Tomarq and answered, “No. She’ll be my death.”

“A smashed gem.”

“A queen of gems and a Way. She may be scattered, but she still reigns up here.”

“She is broken. Even Ways die.”

“Not her. Believe me or not, at your peril.” He moved in the opposite direction, watching as the sun bedazzled Nahaal’s face. The other squinted his eyes and mimicked Tranta’s stance, but not as successfully as he liked.

Tranta would not have the sun in his opponent’s face as long as he liked and needed to take advantage of what time he had. Nahaal moved impatiently, but Tranta, having watched the warlord Bistel and his son Bistane for much of his life, decided that the ild Fallyn attempted to draw him out. He did not respond except to pace another cautious step to his side. Once he drew, he knew the other would press him. Even as he moved, he realized that Nahaal did not intend for him to live. It would be enough to disable him and take the Sentinels, but those hadn’t been the orders given. Alton ild Fallyn hated him as much as he hated in return, and he wasn’t meant to survive this encounter.

Tranta took a carefully measured step backward. A glint in the other’s eyes deepened.

“It’s not the death trap you imagine,” he informed his opponent. “I’ve lived through one fall off this cliff which increases the odds I’ll survive a second.”

Nahaal jumped. He leaped high, as if thinking that Tranta would leap to meet him but did not have the advantage of levitation, and that his blow would be superiorly overhead, slicing downward.

But Tranta hit the ground and rolled, this time in the opposite direction of where he had been sidling sideways, as the sword blade whiffed through the air harmlessly. He drew his curved sword and long sword as he got back up, crossed them, and waited. The sea never smelled more powerful in the wind and spray coming off the water to his back. It renewed his yearning to sail on its waters, singing of the joy of following the tide to his innermost self. That voice should distract him, but instead it buoyed him, letting him believe that a day would come when he could yield to it. A day beyond this one. A lifetime that ticked another season or two longer when death stared him in the eye.

Tranta knew that whatever happened here, whatever the outcome, it would be discovered shortly. He’d already ordered freight wagons to come and pick up their loads of the Sentinels. The guards who now lay dead at the foot of the slope would be discovered. The looted work yard would then be revealed upon further inspection. Whether his body would be found there within it or not still lay in his hands and his workings. He still had a grip on his destiny.

Nahaal closed on him. Blades rang. His hands moved of their own volition. Parry, block, attack, retreat, set, and block again. Nahaal’s breath came in a near bellow, fueled by his fury, unable to get past Tranta’s defense.

He sprang back for a needed breather; Tranta did not press him, feeling an aching burn in his biceps and wrists.

“The ild Fallyn lie,” Tranta said conversationally, trying to keep his own breathing smooth as if he had been little more than tried. “I am not the target they told you I would be. While it’s true my contemporaries—Bistane and Sevryn—are far more Talented, I have a certain ability.”

Nahaal’s nose ran. He wiped it on the back of his wrist and made a scoffing sound. “We enjoy toying with our prey.” He centered himself with bravado.

Tranta opened his mouth to reply, “I am Shielded,” but Nahaal threw from his left hand and the dagger sank deeply into his right flank with a vicious smack, knocking him back a step. His breath left him in a surprised whoosh. He crossed his chest with his long sword as Nahaal closed and he sank his own left-handed sword deep into the other’s boot, nailing him in place momentarily as he staggered back another step.

He pushed his hand into his pocket flap. Tomarq’s splintered and shattered bits filled his hand, beyond warm to the touch as the last of the clear, lancing sunrays came over the cliff.

He threw his handful of rare gems into Nahaal’s face as the swordsman closed for the kill. They burst into flame at sunlight’s touch, driving Nahaal onto his heels with a sharp cry of both fear and pain as he pushed his arms up in defense. The hair fringing his face burst into flame that sputtered out.

Tranta’s hands twitched to take the blade from his side, but he knew better. He closed on the other, injured flank turned away so that Nahaal could not twist or turn the dagger deeper. He brought his long sword up, but Nahaal, face blistered and eyes streaming in agony, parried him. The swords sang as they ran off each other.

Nahaal pulled Tranta’s weapon from his foot, and came at him again, both hands full, his face contorted, his vest smoking in fits and spurts where molten glass still rested in its folds.

Tranta ducked from the inevitable sword blow, but Nahaal did not swing. He slid to one knee, hooking his free foot out and catching Tranta behind the ankle, sending him backward.

And nothing lay behind him.

Tranta felt himself pitch off the cliff’s edge, and Nahaal’s eyes narrowed in triumph.

He fell but not before he reached for and grabbed the ild Fallyn’s ankle and took Nahaal down with him, the edge of the cliff crumbling about them. The sea wind whistled up as he tried to twist in the air so that he could see the ocean looming underneath. A gull sounded a forlorn cry as they tumbled past. He wondered if the levitator could regain his senses well enough to protect them from the harsh landing awaiting them.