Obsidian Eyes

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© 2014 A.W. Exley
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ISBN 978-1-62007-502-9 (ebook)
ISBN 978-1-62007-503-6 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-62007-504-3 (hardcover)

1. Start Reading
   
2. About the Author
   
3. A Taste Of Nefertiti's Heart
   
4. Copyright & Publisher
   
5. More Books from Curiosity Quills Press
   
6. Full Table of Contents
   

To the 185 men, women, and children who lost their lives in the Canterbury earthquake, February 2011.
In a handful of heart beats we lost so much.

Monday, 18
^th
July 1836

he sword sliced through invisible treacle. The deep green tassel hanging from the hilt swayed back and forth with the blade’s measured progress. The girl’s bare feet were silent on the dark wood floor. With eyes closed and breathing controlled, she appeared to slow time. A second stretched into twenty as she lost herself in the rhythm and balance of the ancient Chinese movements.

Above her head on the mezzanine floor, two men watched through the slated office window: Jared McLaren, student at St Matthews, and Weapons Master Marshall.

The younger man’s gaze followed the intricate dance. His help had been requested to unravel a puzzle. A puzzle who wielded a sword so expertly on the floor below.

“Who is she?” He voiced his question without taking his eyes off the girl. He stood at ease, arms clasped behind his back. Even at seventeen years old, military training oozed from every pore. With an affinity for any weapon and a keen mind, he earned his place as top student in weapons training.

The older man ran a hand through short salt and pepper hair. He flicked his gaze from the girl to his favourite pupil. “Alessandra Donovan, although she prefers Allie. She will be in your classes this year. Her grandfather is the new history master and librarian. He came here from Egypt, six weeks ago, and brought his granddaughter with him.”

Jared frowned. “She’s a commoner?”

His tongue tripped over the word, watching the graceful young woman going through the moves of the Tai Chi form. ‘Common’ was the last word he would pick to describe her. A lithe form showed she was no stranger to weapon play, yet her body curved in places that made his throat constrict. Gathered at her nape by a thong, black hair the texture and sheen of silk hung to the middle of her back. A faint olive tone dusted her skin, speaking of a heritage far more exotic than an ordinary English rose. Her oval face bore high cheekbones and deep red lips. He wished she would open her eyes, so he could see their colour. He wagered with himself they would be darkest chocolate; rich and intoxicating.

“Yes.” Marshall’s answer broke through Jared’s silent inspection.

Remembering his almost forgotten question, his mind spun to understand how a commoner gained admittance to the exclusive school. Only the wealthiest peers could afford to send their teenagers to be educated at the Academy. Even girls were a recent addition in the last decade, after the school board succumbed to the pressure, and pocket books, of a few high-powered nobles.

“St Matthews wouldn’t take a commoner just because her grandfather is staff. No matter how much they wanted him.”

“Exactly,” Marshall agreed. “But money talks, especially large quantities of it. Despite the school’s official stance that her placement is a concession to her grandfather, someone paid for her to attend. And she has an extensive and lethal collection of toys.”

“She’s guild?” He drew his gaze from the girl below, back to Marshall. There were two levels to society: the world most people knew and lived in, controlled by the nobility… and the underworld, governed by the four guilds. The implication of her presence sent a whispered shudder down his rigid spine.
Assassin.

“I’d bet my right arm on it.”

The left sleeve of Marshall’s shirt was neatly rolled and knotted above the elbow. Wagering his only arm meant he thought the comment a sure bet. He gave long years of military service as an intelligence officer. Only the loss of his arm forced his retirement to St Matthews. His position teaching the young nobles to thrust and parry was an ideal cover. He recruited for the military when the right candidate appeared in his classes, like Jared. Marshall knew as much about the guild underworld as any outsider could.

Jared went back to watching the girl, her familiarity with a blade now wreathed in a black shadow. He sucked in an uneasy breath. “An assassin, at the school?”

“That was my first thought too, but it doesn’t fit. I’ve dealt with assassins, the Skin Dancers, before, and there’s a coldness about them. They are detached from the world and what they do. Dealing in death infects their souls. But this one? Well, you’ll see.” A smile crunched among the deep lines at the corners of his eyes.

Jared passed a puzzled look to his master. If the Skin Dancers had placed an assassin at school, it meant someone was in imminent danger; but the tactic could shatter a delicate peace if her target was a student. For five hundred years there existed a covenant between the underworld guilds and the lords who ruled above:
children are to be left untouched by the dealings of their fathers
.

“Come on down and grab a sword. That’s the other reason I asked you here early, other than the obvious puzzle. She’s quick and I want you to test her.” They took the wooden stairway curving down to the floor of the cavernous training gymnasium, Marshall’s domain.

St Matthews Academy held a formidable reputation among the English aristocracy for the breadth of its academic curriculum. Scottish nobles, since the Warrior King Act of 1570, sent their heirs to learn tactics and to wield a variety of weapons under the expert eye of Weapons Master Marshall.

One wall held mullioned windows set high, almost touching the ceiling. Sunlight streamed in and, wherever it could touch, warmed the rich wooden floor. Glow lamps cast a soft yellow light wherever the summer sun failed to penetrate.

Weapons dominated the adjacent wall. A workbench ran along half the wall, the surface containing grinders, machines, rags, and oil, all necessary to maintain razor edges. Blades and staves of every description and size formed a glinting façade of death and mayhem, each held in place by custom-made brackets. A wooden cabinet hugged the available space next to the bench. Wide doors swung open to reveal smaller weapons: throwing stars, pocket knives, and slender stilettoes.

Climbing ropes hung in another corner, knots at regular intervals to give some relief to young muscles as they clambered to the bars just below the high ceiling. Black and white concentric rings at varying heights decorated another wall, targets used for knife throwing.

The faint tang of citrus hung in the air from the cleaning fluid used to mop sweat from the floors each night, along with a dollop of melted bees’ wax to add shine to the gleaming timber.

The two men walked to the middle of the room.

“Allie?” Marshall interrupted the girl’s meditation.

She froze and flicked open eyes of the darkest brown, bordering on black.

“This is Jared McLaren, my best student.”

She cast her steady gaze to Jared and inclined her head in acknowledgement. He stared; he could drown in her eyes. Meeting her gaze was like peering into the depths of night. It concealed unfathomable secrets within inky darkness. Breaking eye contact, he gave a formal half bow as he unslung the long katana from his back and passed it to Marshall.

“I thought you might like a challenge now you have warmed up. Jared regularly puts me through my paces.” Marshall strode to the bench and deposited the katana. From the wall of weapons he selected two swords of medium length, holding both blades in his one remaining hand. Returning to the youths, he let each take a sword before removing the jian from Allie’s elegant fingers.