Heir of Autumn Read online

  “Go ahead,” she spoke softly, sending her desires into the boy’s thoughts. “I’m right behind you.”

  The soldier looked confused, but nodded. He started walking down the street.

  A sudden wave of nausea washed over her as she watched him go. A piece of the young soldier stayed with her, stuck inside her, struggling like a butterfly in a web. She took several deep breaths and tried to banish the sensation. It slowly began to fade as the soldier continued up the street alone, but some part of him lingered, an uncomfortable reminder that, for the first time, she had compelled someone against his will. But she couldn’t be deterred by a guard. Brophy needed her more than she needed a clear conscience. She swallowed the bitterness and headed across the street in the other direction.

  She walked to the small dock in front of Jayden’s house and held up a hand. A waterbug, one of the small boats that ferried customers across the bay, veered toward her.

  At first Krellis’s plan to implicate Brophy seemed foolish. Shara had been in the room when Trent told his story. She was a trained Zelani and she had heard him lie. She would testify, and Brophy would go free. Even if Shara could not speak, anyone who knew Brophy knew he wasn’t a rapist or a murderer. And Trent was not renowned for his honesty.

  If Krellis was confident that Brophy would be found guilty, then he must have a strong witness. The only person who fit that description was Femera, the victim herself. Someone needed to find out what the girl knew.

  The waterbug glided up to the stone quay. Shara was surprised to see a young woman at the tiller.

  “Where you going?” the young driver asked.

  “Stoneside.”

  “I can do that.”

  “How much?”

  “Two.” The girl’s wispy red hair was cut short like a boy’s. Her smile was quick and her eyes alert. The waterbug would never be beautiful, but she had charm. Shara didn’t trust the girl, but she liked her immediately.

  Stepping off the dock, Shara instinctively grabbed the mast as the boat rocked. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Lawdon.” The girl shrugged. “It’s a boy’s name, I know. Blame my father, whoever he was.”

  Lawdon pushed away from the dock and leapt to the tiny boom, neatly turning it to catch the breeze. The sail filled, and they moved slowly across the harbor. Shara stayed silent. She wanted the girl talking.

  “You a Flower?” the kid asked.

  “No.”

  “You came from the Sister of Autumn’s house.”

  Shara looked over her shoulder at Baelandra’s three-story marble home. Lawdon continued.

  “A man has been watching that place all day. He took off west when you got in my boat.”

  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Shara asked her.

  The girl smiled and trailed her hand in the water as she steered. “I have a lot of time on my hands.”

  Lawdon kept a lazy grip on the rudder as though the boat would sail itself. She grinned. “Me and my ‘bug, we’re going to go far in this world,” she said. “Got big plans. I could use an investor if you’re interested.”

  Shara smiled as they slid under Donovan’s Bridge. “What do you think of the Children of the Seasons?”

  “The Flowers?”

  “Yes. The Sister of Autumn, Baelandra. Brother Krellis. Vallia, Hazel, Jayden.”

  “Rich. Arrogant.”

  “Brophy.”

  “Cute.”

  Shara laughed.

  “Trent?”

  Lawdon narrowed her eyes and looked over her shoulder. “What do you mean?”

  “What have you heard? About Trent?”

  The girl paused, weighing her words carefully. “I heard he was dead.”

  Shara nodded. “I was there when he died. What else did you hear?”

  “All kinds of things. I heard Brophy killed him. Poison.”

  “Poison?”

  “Or a duel.” She watched Shara. Glancing away for a moment, Lawdon deftly navigated around a slow-moving galley. “Which was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Shara lied.

  “I’m sure it was a duel, then. Trent wasn’t of the blood, and Brophy finally gave him what was coming to him. Now Krellis wants Brophy dead. The crazy beggar woman on the Stoneside dock says Trent and his father are the doom of Ohndarien. The blood of the Seasons is failing. The Flowers are dying. They can’t make any boys. It’s been happening ever since the real Brothers left. Brophy killed Trent to give the Council a good washing. He’ll go after Krellis next.”

  “What do you think of Brother Krellis?”

  She shrugged. “The soldiers love him. Sailors hate him. Only makes sense. He taxes the sailors and spends it on the soldiers. He hasn’t started taxing waterbugs yet.” She winked. “So who cares?”

  “Do you think a foreigner should be on the Council?”

  “Over a Flower? What do I care? I’m from Gildheld. Everyone I know is from somewhere else. It don’t matter. The council won’t last much longer, anyway.”

  Lawdon loosened a line and let the sail luff. They glided gracefully up to a little quay at Stoneside.

  The young woman held the boat steady as Shara stepped out.

  “You are a credit to your trade,” Shara said, putting four coins in Lawdon’s hands. She raised her eyebrows just slightly at the amount.

  “You need a ride anywhere, anytime, I’m your captain.”

  Shara smiled. “Keep your eyes and ears open, and we’ll talk about it later.”

  “What about that investment opportunity?” Lawdon called, as Shara walked away.

  “We’ll talk about it later.”

  Shara crossed Stoneside, listening to the crowd as she passed. All the talk was on Trent’s murder, on Brophy’s trial. No one knew what to believe.

  She reached Master Garm’s shop and let out a slow breath of disappointment. Thick boards had been hastily hammered over the smithy’s windows. A lock and chain bound the shop’s double doors. A bent pair of tongs lay discarded in the street. A glance inside the window revealed some scattered furniture, old and broken-down. Nothing of value.

  Had they run? Or were they removed? Could Krellis force Femera to lie for him? Shara wished Brophy had talked about the girl more. He’d mentioned her a couple of times, and Shara knew he had a crush on her, but he would always clam up shortly after the conversation started. She shouldn’t have teased him. She should have listened.

  Shara looked around the deserted side street. Someone must have seen something. She crossed the street to the workshop of a brass smith. A small bell tinkled as she opened the door.

  The merchant was a tall, narrow-shouldered man with a potbelly. He wore a leather apron over his brown shirt and pants. A mustache drooped from his upper lip, and his nose had been broken at some point in his past. He looked at her with his tiny eyes and smiled.

  “Yes, miss? Can I help you find something?”

  “Just a question, if you would.” Shara smiled and felt him relax. While she concentrated on her words, she matched her breath with his. “Do you know what happened to the smithy across the street?”

  She let herself slide past his eyes into his thoughts and memories. She fought back a wave of nausea.

  “They just packed up and left,” the brass smith said.

  She waded through a flood of images in the man’s mind. It was nighttime. Several soldiers helped Garm and his daughter load a small cart. The girl was crying. Shara felt something else inside him, but it was as elusive as a fish. She lost it.

  The brass smith shrugged. “It’s a pity. Garm brought a high class of customer to his shop. Many of them stopped here after seeing him. I’m going to lose sales because he ran off like that.”

  “Was there anything strange about his leaving?” she asked. The door of the brass shop opened, but nobody stepped through. It slammed shut.

  She hardly heard the man speaking to her as she went over the image, replaying it in her mind. The door opened and closed. The
brass smith stood at the forge, several large vessels by his side. Behind him a wall of tools. The window slightly cracked.

  She pulled out of his thoughts for a moment and realized the brass smith was waiting for an answer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “What were you about to tell me?” Shara delved deep. Something was missing. She felt the answer was hidden there. Somewhere, but she couldn’t find it.

  “It was the strangest thing,” the merchant mumbled. “Must have been a matter o’ life and death.”

  “Must have been,” she murmured. The door opened and closed again. No one entered. The brass smith stood in his nightshirt with a candle in hand. He spoke to nobody. He paused as if someone were speaking to him, but there were no other voices. Nothing.

  A wave of nausea swept over her and she had to grab on to the counter to keep her balance. She swallowed the taste of bile and pressed on.

  The merchant turned and glanced at the reflection in one of the pots.

  There!

  A man’s reflection, warped by the shape of the brass. He had black hair, fading to gray at the temples. Black eyes. Black beard.

  “Miss, you all right?” the merchant asked.

  She snapped out of her trance, looked up at the man.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she whispered. “Really.”

  “Seemed like you were going to faint.”

  “No, I’m all right.” Her heart fluttered and she turned to look at the pot she had seen in the man’s memory. Her own warped reflection stared back at her, but in the brass smith’s memories it hadn’t been her. It had been Victeris.

  Garm and Femera had not gone willingly.

  Shara thanked the merchant and left his shop. The inky feeling in her stomach grew heavier.

  This can’t be about Brophy. It has to be something else, something larger. Shara needed to talk to the girl, find out the truth and get her to testify before the council.

  Shara stood in the alley for a long moment, cycling through the five gates, focusing her mind on the mental image of her master. As a child she had played a game with the other students where they tried to find each other in the baths while blindfolded. Shara had been very good at it. She could easily pick her closest friends out of a crowd just by the feel of their minds.

  Shara tried the same thing now with Victeris, extending her attention outward beyond her body. She reached through the city, searching for a hint of recognition. It was dangerous spreading her mind over such a large area, and she grew thin, frayed at the edges. She was losing herself. But she could feel him. She let herself spread even thinner.

  And then she had him. She held on to the feeling like a thin thread between pinched fingers. Victeris was somewhere on Stoneside, north and west of her.

  Shara headed north through the streets of Ohndarien. She took a wide berth around Bloody Row, the long, crooked street that held Ohndarien’s slaughterhouses. A horrendous barnyard stench lingered around the street. It reminded her of her childhood, and she avoided it whenever she could.

  The thread took her closer and closer to the Quarry Wall, the blue-white marble barrier that protected the city’s northern border. Shara followed it all the way to an old, two-story house near the Quarry Gate, poorly kept, the wood rotting in places. Shara ducked into an alley and took a moment to collect her thoughts.

  The safest plan was to return to Baelandra’s house. The Sister of Autumn knew hundreds of people who would help her recover Femera and her father, but Shara didn’t want to risk losing them again.

  She paused, bit her lip. Her mind raced. She would have to face Victeris and take the girl from him. Shara concentrated on her breath, adding her fear to her power. She had been raised on tales of dueling magicians from Efften. For years she had indulged in little fantasies about facing Victeris and defeating him. Now that she had graduated, the idea didn’t seem so ridiculous. The element of surprise could go a long way.

  Shara wrapped a glamour around herself and left the alley. She crossed the street and peered in the run-down house’s front window. The room inside was empty, but Victeris was close. She could feel him. Carefully, she probed the rest of the building, letting her awareness float through the wooden walls. There were two more people inside, an angry man and a young woman.

  Keeping her breathing even and steady, Shara stepped through the unlocked front door and crept up the house’s narrow staircase.

  At the top of the steps, she came to a hallway with three closed doors. Just as she put her foot on the top stair, the left door opened. A burly Farad with a bushy beard walked into the hall and a slender, dark-haired girl followed him. They looked right past her as if she were a painting on the wall.

  That must be Femera, Shara thought. The girl was pretty, in a peasant kind of way, but Shara couldn’t see why Brophy was so infatuated with her.

  The giant man had to be her father, Garm. His fear was palpable, even a normal person could see it. Femera’s emotions were harder to penetrate. The girl was empty, as if she had given up on life. Or had all the life drained from her.

  They walked past her, and Garm knocked on the right-hand door.

  “My lord,” he said. “My daughter slept most of the day, but she’s awake now. You said we should speak with you when she woke.”

  Shara’s heart beat faster, and she gathered her power. Walking up to the door, she placed a hand lightly on Garm’s shoulder. She matched her breath with the big man’s and fought the inky feeling inside her chest.

  Faint footsteps crossed the room on the far side of the door. The latch rattled, and Shara narrowed her eyes.

  Victeris opened it.

  “Hit him,” Shara whispered. The smith swung his huge fist into the Zelani master’s stomach. Victeris slumped to the floor with a grunt.

  Femera and Garm both gasped and jumped back. Garm thumped against the wall in the narrow confines of the hallway.

  “Run,” Shara whispered.

  They both stared at her, unmoving. She snapped her fingers and they fled. Garm picked his daughter up and flew down the stairs with her under one arm.

  Shara turned to Victeris as he rolled on the floor. She knelt next to the man, put a hand on his cheek, and matched his ragged breathing.

  He opened his eyes at her touch. For the briefest instant, Shara felt a rush of fear sweep through the man. Then his black eyes narrowed. She felt his defenses go up, and she attacked, forcing her way past his eyes and into his mind.

  Victeris held up his hand as though that might stop the pressure of her will. She gritted her teeth but continued breathing in time with him. When he gasped, she gasped, then drew him back into her cycle. He began panting. She panted with him, slowed his breathing and drew him back in. He crawled backward into the room. She pursued him.

  “You don’t need the girl,” she spoke into his mind. “She has served her purpose, you can forget about her.”

  “No,” he growled. “I won’t let you.”

  Victeris tried to stare her down, tried to counterattack, but she opened her eyes to him and drew his power into herself, overwhelming his flagging will. His body twisted and writhed across the floor. She pressed onward, drawing his breath back to her rhythm.

  She could barely keep her mind on the fight. Pulling Victeris’s will into her body felt like swallowing a mouthful of tar.

  The Zelani master’s fingers curled into fists and pounded on the floor. His head flopped against the wood, and he stayed there a long moment. When he rose, the lines of struggle were gone from his face. He stared at her calmly.

  “Shara-lani,” he intoned.

  “Forget about the girl,” she said. “Forget about the father. They have served their purpose. Return home, knowing you have completed a job well-done.”

  “Wha—”

  Shara felt a flicker of resistance, breathed through it and let it dissipate.

  “Return home,” she told him. “You have done well.”

  “Yes, my
lady.”

  Victeris jerked forward, as if on strings. He walked stiffly across the room and down the stairs. She heard him reach the bottom, open the door, and close it behind him.

  Shara staggered to the wall and put a hand on the rough planking. She leaned over and vomited in the corner. By the Seasons, that man’s soul was putrid! She had to get that feeling out of her belly, wash the tar from her insides. She vomited again, but it did no good. She had never encountered anything so vile, never imagined it possible.

  Her stomach lurched again, but she held it in this time. Breathing steadily, she gained control of her body, wiped her dripping mouth with her sleeve.

  Shara wanted to curl up in a ball and sleep, but she forced herself to leave the room and run down the stairs. She hurried into the street and extended her consciousness, searching for Femera and her father. She looked east first, toward their home. They were close, she had almost found them when she felt a cold hand upon her shoulder.

  She spun around. Victeris’s eyes were aflame and his lips pulled back into a snarl. Shara drew a quick breath.

  “I am Victeris,” he murmured. Her breath faltered as though he’d punched her in the stomach. A memory echoed through her and her skin tingled. She suddenly felt naked.

  No! She focused on him, but he spoke again and her defenses crumbled.

  “I am the source of your power. Your master now and forever…”

  Shara tried to turn, tried to run, but a black cloud filled her mind, and her limbs refused to obey. She held up a hand as if she could stop the magic that invaded her.

  “You are mine. When I call, you will come to me. When I speak, you will obey…”

  Shara fell to her knees and blacked out.

  VICTERIS WALKED WITH his arm around Shara’s shoulder. He led her down the street toward Bloody Row.

  As they neared the slaughterhouses, the stench of animal fear and raw flesh overwhelmed her. The row seemed dark despite the light of the fading afternoon. A few bloody-handed workers looked up from their grisly tasks, but no one said anything.