Chapter One

 

 

He gave the door a gentle push with the toe of his boot, and it swung open with a creak. The room was dark, cloaked in shadows, but Alesh caught a metallic flickering in the gloom and recoiled just in time to avoid the questing steel as it cut through the space where his throat had been a moment before. Alesh countered, his blade lashing forward and was rewarded with the feel of it piercing flesh, though the darkness made it impossible to tell exactly where it had struck.

There was a growl of anger from the shadows, and Alesh grunted in surprise as the man charged into him, slamming him into the wall. Alesh scrambled, catching the man’s wrists more by luck than design in an effort to keep the glimmering steel at bay. It was a near thing, at first, the man’s momentum and Alesh’s surprise working together, and Alesh managed to stop the blade only inches from his face. They struggled then, and after a moment Alesh noted that his adversary was growing weaker as the wound robbed him of his strength. His attacker must have realized this too. He jerked his hand back only to lunge forward again in an attempt to surprise Alesh, but the wound had stolen not just his strength but his speed as well, and Alesh managed to parry the flashing blade, knocking it out of the man’s hand before countering with an attack of his own.

The man’s body stiffened as the sword went in and warm blood covered Alesh’s hand and wrist. His opponent let out a soft moan and collapsed to the ground, unmoving. Alesh stood there, panting, and was still trying to get his breath back when one of Captain Nordin’s men came rushing up from behind him holding a lantern. “Chosen,” he said, “are you alright?”

“I’m…fine,” Alesh managed. And on the surface, at least, that was true, for the man’s knife had managed only superficial cuts along his arms. Painful, but too shallow to be of any real danger. Then the guard raised the lantern he carried, its poor light shining down, and Alesh saw his opponent for the first time. A short, gray-haired man that looked to be in his sixties, his clothes marking him as a chamberlain or head of servants. The man’s face was slack in death, and he looked almost peaceful, like some kindly grandfather who, exhausted from playing with his well-loved grandchildren, had lain down for a brief nap to regather his strength. The sort of grandfather who would make jokes and tell his grandchildren stories about how things used to be and about how good they had it. Alesh decided maybe he’d spoken too soon, after all. Maybe he wasn’t fine. In fact, he was beginning to think he wasn’t even close.

“Very well.” The guard nodded, moving farther into the house, his own blade ready.

Alesh watched him go, taking a slow, deep breath. They had been at it for days now, hunting down the nobles and merchants of the city who had been in secret league with Aldrick and the Darkness, intent on betraying Alesh and the city of Valeria to the enemy, and the dead man lying at his feet wasn’t the first “warrior” he’d slain who seemed to have no business being mixed up in such bloody affairs. Though he had suffered no significant physical wounds, Alesh felt that his emotions and mental state had taken a beating over the past days as he and the others rooted out the servants of the Darkness in the city, each seemingly a more unlikely candidate than the last.

He did his best to hide the emotional toll the work took, just as he did his best to conceal the shame it left in him. After all, he had promised the nobles justice. He’d told them that those guilty of treason would be hunted down, a job made easier by documents found in the recently deceased Lord Aldrick’s mansion, documents cataloguing, in detail, the activities of his fellow conspirators, presumably a safeguard against any of them betraying him.

Alesh knew the work was important, vital even, but knowing that did nothing to change the guilt festering inside him, for the old man lying dead at his feet was not the first he had killed while tracking down the traitors to Valeria. It was becoming so bad that he had considered doing as Katherine had recommended and leaving the work to Nordin and his men. After all, she’d said, leaders had a responsibility not to risk themselves at tasks others were better suited for. But Alesh would not, could not do that. He might not be a good leader, but he told himself he would not be the kind of man to ask his subordinates do something he was unwilling to do himself.

So he woke each morning—or roused himself from a night spent tossing and turning with nightmares in which he saw all the faces of those he’d slain—and met with Captain Nordin to see what dark truths the scribes studying the reams of Aldrick’s files had uncovered. Alesh had known, of course, that others within Valeria’s walls supported Shira’s cause, but the sheer number of them was staggering.

Still, despite days spent rooting out the Darkness’s servants and nights spent twisting and turning with bad dreams, Alesh told himself he should be grateful. After all, for reasons neither he nor anyone else seemed to understand, the Broken’s army had yet to attack the city. After Sevrin and Aldrick’s deaths and the failed attempt of the nightlings to use the siege tunnels to invade the city, the enemy army had disappeared back into the forest without so much as a single camp fire visible from the city’s walls. Yet what scant comfort this might have offered Alesh was tempered by the fact that, as of yet, they had received no letters from the Broken or any of his men regarding Sonya, no attempts to use her to blackmail Alesh into giving up the city. There had been nothing at all regarding her, only silence, and that silence worried him.

He told himself that the Broken wouldn’t waste the opportunity the girl’s capture provided by killing her out of hand. True, the man had shown no hesitation in killing when he thought it was necessary—had almost seemed to enjoy it—but he had not struck Alesh as a fool to give up a bit of leverage for no other reason than that it might hurt Alesh. And even if he had done so, then surely he would have reached out to let Alesh know of it. After all, what good torturing a man by hurting those he cared about, if he never knew it?

It made sense that the Broken would keep her alive, would try to use her to gain some advantage over Alesh and the city’s defenders, and it was this rationale he used to keep his fear under control, to keep it chained. But with each day that passed without word, that fear, that terror slipped its bonds a little more, making it more and more difficult for Alesh to think clearly. Gods, keep her safe, he thought.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him from his dark thoughts, and Alesh spun, pulling his eyes away from the dead man at his feet to see Captain Nordin standing in front of him. The captain had a fresh bandage on his upper arm, and there was a shallow cut across his face, but it was the dark circles under his eyes and the weary, pale look of him that Alesh noticed the most. “Captain,” Alesh said. “How goes it in the rest of the house?”

“The men are finishing clearing it as we speak, Chosen,” Nordin said. “Widow Maldraga appears to have only kept a small, token guard force of no more than half a dozen men, less than most of the houses we’ve been to so far.” He grunted. “Surprising, if I’m honest. From all the notes Aldrick had on her and about how dangerous she was, I’ll confess I expected her to put up a bit more of a fight.”

Alesh nodded slowly, trying to think back to the report the scribes had given him before they’d come. It seemed that he’d read dozens of the things lately, and his weary mind was finding it difficult to separate one from the other. Aldrick had gone on about the widow a great deal, his notes seeming to reflect a respect, perhaps even a fear of her. She was slippery, he’d said, slippery and clever.

“And full of poison,” Alesh said aloud as he remembered. “Like a snake. Subtle, too.”

Nordin shrugged. “Well, you don’t mind my sayin’ so, sir, I hope some of the other nobles and merchants we have to visit are as subtle as this. A shield made of wind would be a subtle defense, too. Also useless.”

“And the widow? Have we found her?”

“Lady Maldraga is in her quarters. My men found her sitting at table reading as if she hadn’t a care in the world. She asked for you, but I told her you were too busy to visit every traitor in the city, though maybe she’d catch a glimpse of you at her execution.”

Alesh winced at that. He had promised the nobles that he would hunt down any of them who were traitors and would have them killed. So far with Aldrick’s notes, they had been able to find many of those traitors, but he had only been putting them in the dungeons for the moment. Dungeons which, according to reports, were growing terribly over-crowded. As for what to do with the prisoners, well, it was a decision he’d been putting off but one that he knew he would be forced to make sooner rather than later. He knew what Nordin and the other guardsmen thought he should do, knew what he’d promised he would do, but despite their crimes, despite all that they had betrayed, the thought of sending so many men and women—some old enough to be grandmothers and grandfathers, some barely old enough to be called adults—to their executions made him sick.

And more than that, confused. He wanted, needed to understand what could make such people, husbands and wives, mothers and daughters, abandon the Light and turn to the Darkness. “I will go to her,” Alesh said, suddenly eager to see what the widow wanted to say as all those they’d rounded up thus far had mostly confined their communications to shouts of anger as they attacked.

The captain looked taken aback and seemed on the verge of protest but held his tongue—which was just as well, for Alesh meant to speak to the widow regardless. Perhaps, it would be fruitless—likely, it would be—but he had to speak to her, had to try to make some sense of it all. He wanted, needed to understand why a woman—by all rights a gentle one, known for her kindness and charity, would abandon the Light and choose the Darkness.

 

***

 

He followed Captain Nordin through the mansion, his mood darkening with each corpse they passed. Most wore clothes marking them as part of the household, guards or some few servants who had decided to fight for their mistress, but not all. Two wore the uniforms of city guardsmen, which meant they had come with Alesh. They had come following his orders, and now they were dead. He gritted his teeth as another layer was added to the shame growing inside him, following as the captain swept past the dead men.

Eventually, they made it to a door flanked by two guards who bowed when Nordin and Alesh approached. Both appeared worse for the wear, but Alesh was glad to see that what wounds and bruises they had appeared superficial and not particularly dangerous.

“She still inside?” Nordin asked.

One of the two nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Very well.” Nordin turned to Alesh, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure about this, Chosen? There really isn’t any need for you—”

But there was a need, one that demanded that he speak to the woman, try to make some sense of her choice, of why anyone would give themselves to the Darkness. “I’m sure, Captain.”

Nordin grunted. “As you say, sir. Still, I can go with you, at least, in case—”

“In case what?” Alesh asked, turning to the man. “In case I find myself unable to deal with an old woman who can barely stand? Relax, Captain. I’ll be fine.”

Judging by the sour look on his face, Nordin wanted to argue further, but he only gave a short nod instead. “As you say, sir. We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

Alesh gave a nod, moving past the guards and closing the door behind him. He wasn’t sure what he expected to find when he stepped into the study, but the woman he saw reclining on a crimson-cushioned lounge wasn’t it. She had silver hair, short and curly, and a squat, plump frame that was evident despite the poor light coming from the room’s single lantern. Her chubby cheeks were rosy as if with good humor or good health, and she wore a long dress, the skirt of which failed to hide legs that were far too thin, in stark contrast to the rest of her body. She held a book in her hands, and she did not look up from its pages as Alesh entered.

“Lady Maldraga,” he said, “I have—”

The woman held up a finger, still without so much as glancing up at him from her book, as if telling him to wait. Just when he had decided to force the issue and show her she wasn’t in charge, she glanced up, offering him a smile and closing her book.

She studied him, squinting her eyes as if having difficulty seeing him. “Hmph,” she said finally. “Shorter than I would have thought.”

Alesh, who was slightly over six feet tall, had never thought of himself as short, but he saw no point in saying so. “My name is Alesh,” he said, “and I am—”

“Yes, yes,” the woman said rolling her eyes as if bored, “you are the man who killed Tesharna, who killed Aldrick and promised to kill any of those who serve the Darkness, isn’t that right?”

Alesh frowned, taken back by the woman’s casual attitude. “I am. Now, why don’t you tell me why it is you’ve asked for me and hurry it up—I’ve other things to be about than talking to traitors.”

Her frown deepened. “Handsome enough, I suppose. But so self-righteous and with a distinct lack of manners.”

“Manners?” Alesh demanded. “That’s funny coming from a woman who—”

But the older woman went on as if he had never spoken. “One would think your parents would have taught you better, would have taught you a certain respect for your elders, at the very least.”

Alesh found himself snarling. “My parents weren’t able to teach me much as they were murdered by servants of the Darkness when I was only a child, Lady Maldraga. And as for respect, I have little to spare for someone who would sell her entire city out to serve the Darkness.”

She gave him a long-suffering smile then, the kind usually employed by parents or grandparents when dealing with a particularly willful and exceptionally misbehaving child. “It is so easy, isn’t it, to judge others without understanding what they go through, without knowing the losses they have suffered, those things, most precious, which they had taken from them?”

Alesh had suffered his share of loss and then some in his life, losing first his mother and father, then Chosen Olliman, the man who’d taken him into his care, as well as Abigail and Chorin, but he didn’t bother saying so. Instead, he only sighed, suddenly too tired and exhausted to be much offended or angry in any case. “You asked for me?”

She studied him with what might have been amusement, and he became painfully aware that he hadn’t called her “ma’am,” or showed her any deference despite the fact that she was many years his elder. She clucked her tongue in what could only have been disapproval then gave a tiny motion of her shoulders that might have been a shrug. “So I did.” She looked him up and down the way a farmer might examine a cow he was considering purchasing. “You’re young. Too young, I wonder?”

“Ma’am,” Alesh said, gathering the remnants of his frayed patience, “it has been a long night and—”

“Ah, it seems you do understand how to be polite, after all,” she said. “Therefore, any lapse in manners must be a choice instead of a thing done out of ignorance.”

Alesh was about to answer that with a snappy retort, but the woman beat him to it, her eyes taking on a distant look. “I was twenty-six years old when my husband and child were taken from me by the fever. Tell me, Chosen, do you know what it’s like to watch those you love the most die in front of you, to watch them waste away and know that there is nothing you can do about it?”

Alesh had lost people in his life, but each of those taken from him, had been taken swiftly, there one minute and gone the next, so fast that he barely had time to register what he was losing until it was gone. He thought that, in some ways, that was better than being forced to watch your loved ones succumb to sickness, trying, wanting to help them and knowing there was nothing you could do. Despite the fact that he knew the widow was a worshipper of the Dark, Alesh felt a wave of pity go through him, and he shook his head. “No, ma’am. I have lost people but not…not in that way.”

She nodded, looking older to him somehow than she had moments ago, as if even so much as remembering her losses had aged her. “We were not particularly wealthy—not then. My husband, you see, was a minor noble as I was myself, and we married not out of some hope for advantage or gain as many noble families do, but out of love, my parents being some of the few in the world who would have allowed such a thing. So what I lost, then, was not a business partner or an ally, but my best friend. The best man I had ever known. And our daughter…” She shook her head, apparently unable to finish and took a long, deep breath.

“Perhaps, had my fortunes been greater, had I married for money instead of love, I might have had enough to pay for treatments to save my sweet Bridget, my kind Marcus. But I did not. So, I did what I could—I prayed. Hours and hours spent on my knees, praying to Amedan and the other gods, and hearing no answer, days spent at the task and each morning my husband and daughter more sickly than they had been the day before, until, when they both lay on their death-beds, their endings so close, I didn’t just pray to Amedan.”

She met Alesh’s eyes and as she did, he saw that her own were filled with tears. “I prayed to anyone who would listen, to the Light and Darkness both, willing to sacrifice any part of myself, of those beliefs and morals I had once held so dear, if it only meant another day, another hour spent in the company of those I loved.”

The widow lapsed into silence, and Alesh swallowed. “So, what happened?”

“No one answered,” she said. “And my husband and my daughter died. But I learned something in their deaths, for there is no greater teacher, Chosen, not in this world or any other, than pain. I realized, you see, that if I had been so willing to give up those morals, those beliefs to which I’d so strongly professed as soon as they became inconvenient, that if I could abandon my faith and worship in the gods the moment I thought they couldn’t help me, then those morals, those beliefs meant nothing to begin with. I realized further that a life spent in dedication to those same gods, a life spent attending regular church ceremonies, doing as the priests said and making sacrifices as I was told, had earned me no reward save for a dead husband and child. So, I promised myself then that I would give nothing of myself to the gods, not any longer. Not without receiving something in return.”

“And Shira promised you that,” Alesh said in realization.

The widow shrugged. “So she did.”

“But I still can’t believe it,” Alesh said. “I mean…your husband, your child…if you were as devout of a family as you say, you have to know that they wouldn’t want you to do this, to give yourself to the Da—”

“My daughter and husband are dead!” the woman interrupted in an abrupt scream. “And the dead, Chosen, want nothing. Now, I have said what I meant to, and I am done talking. I am ready for your men to take me—only, perhaps you would be so kind as to pour us both a glass of wine first?” She motioned to the table where a decanter sat. “All this talking is thirsty work, and I find, now that the moment of reckoning is here, that I am afraid.”

“There’s no time for that,” Alesh said. “The captain waits outside. He’ll see to your…disposition.” He started toward the door, stopping when the woman gave a sharp laugh.

“My disposition, is it? Execution, I think you mean.” She paused then, and it seemed to Alesh that she was on the verge of tears. “Look, I know I do not deserve it, but please, just a taste of the wine…it will help me to steel myself. To give me courage.”

Alesh’s first instinct was to deny the woman what she wanted, but he suddenly felt as if that would be needlessly cruel. The last days had forced him to be cruel, and it seemed that those coming would be no better. What hurt, then, in giving the woman so simple a request? “Very well,” he sighed, moving toward the table and grabbing the decanter. He grabbed one of the two clean glasses from the table and poured before starting toward the woman.

“And one for yourself, too,” she said. When Alesh hesitated, she went on. “Do what you must—I understand that I have earned it. But surely you won’t make an old lady drink alone?”

Alesh fought back a sigh, deciding that the easiest way to get this over with would be to humor the old woman, and he grabbed the second glass, filling it as well. He paused, glancing at the table and feeling an inkling of alarm. Was it just happenstance that the woman had had the wine and the two clean glasses sitting and ready? It was possible, but it seemed unlikely. He smiled, setting the glass and decanter down before turning to the widow.

“I’ve been reading over Aldrick’s notes,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked, glancing meaningfully at the wine.

Alesh nodded. “For all of his crimes, there is no denying that he was thorough in his assessment of each person he deemed worthy of his attention. Some warrant no more than a sentence or two, a notation of this secret or that one should they step out of line and he deem it necessary to punish them.”

The older woman sighed. “This conversation would go a lot better with a glass of wine, don’t you think? It is a rare Welian vintage, and I am quite sure—”

“You, though,” Alesh went on as if she hadn’t spoken, “warranted several pages worth of description. Very unusual for Aldrick and an indication, no doubt, of how he feared you.”

She snorted. “Perhaps you are unaware of the noble structure within Valeria, Chosen,” the widow said, “but I am only a minor noble from a small house, while Lord Aldrick is one of the most powerful men in the city—he has never had anything to fear from me, for he could crush me as easily as one might a bug.”

“If he saw you coming, maybe,” Alesh said, but even in this, he was unsure. “But Aldrick mentioned in his notes that you were subtle, a hidden threat. I believe he even went as far as to compare you to a snake.”

She frowned. “I must admit I am surprised that I warranted Lord Aldrick’s attention, yet I can’t pretend to be flattered at the comparison, and I’m beginning to think you are just as rude and droll as you at first appeared.”

“My point, madam,” Alesh went on, “is that snakes, while they may not be the world’s most preeminent predators, certainly have their dangers. Dangers such as poison.”

The woman’s eyes went wide, and she gave him an offended look. “Surely you can’t mean to insinuate that I would do such a thing!” But when Alesh only stood silently, watching her, and it became obvious he had no intention of drinking, a slow smile spread across her face. Her eyes seemed to dance with amusement, a dark malevolence in her gaze that hadn’t been there before.

For the first time since entering the widow’s quarters, Alesh believed he was finally seeing the woman as she truly was. Not a noble so ready to offend, not even as some pitiable creature who mourned the loss of her husband and child and was being twisted by it. No, whatever twisting had been done had been done already and here, before him, was the product of that twisting. A woman who, despite appearing like some kindly grandmother, was responsible for several murders, and Lord Aldrick had admitted in his notes that she might have been responsible for many more—some, he’d thought, with no hope of gain or ambition, only killing for its own sake, because she had developed a taste for it.

When the clerks working on Aldrick’s papers had first told him of the nobleman’s suspicions, Alesh had thought the man must have been seeing his own cruelty and ambitions reflected in others. Now though, staring at the woman’s dark gaze, at the evil lurking there, Alesh did not doubt him. If anything, he believed Aldrick hadn’t gone far enough in what he’d assumed the widow capable of, had fallen far short of the mark. Here was a true creature of the darkness. It did not matter, not now, how she had been made or what had caused her to become as she was—it only mattered that she was what she was and there was no changing it.

“You would have poisoned me,” Alesh said, not in an accusatory voice but only for something to say to stall, to give his racing thoughts a chance to catch up.

She hesitated, seeming to consider arguing the point but finally shrugged. “Yes.”

Alesh shook his head slowly. “But why? You are already going to be arrested—killing me wouldn’t have changed that.”

Her smile widened. “No, it wouldn’t have.”

“Then why?”

The woman sighed. “Now you sound like one of those priests roaming the streets, swinging their censers and saying their prayers, lighting candle after candle and hoping that the reason for things, the truth of things might present itself, as if it is a beast that might be taught to answer one’s call. It isn’t though. The fact is, Chosen, reasons do not matter nearly so much as most people seem to think. I’d argue that, most of the time, a woman or a man has no idea why they do what they do, at least not anymore than that it feels good. And, in the end, when we are all destined for the grave—as my husband and child were—is that not the best reason of all?” She shrugged again. “I have killed simply because I enjoy it, and I would have killed you because I think I would have enjoyed that immensely. Isn’t that enough?”

Alesh felt his skin go cold at the casual way in which the woman spoke. He knew that, should he open up his god-blessed sight to gaze upon her, to truly see her as she was, he would see shadows clinging to her, swallowing her up, shadows that she had called to her, had taken on willingly. But he did not. Instead, he only turned and opened the door, regarding the guards stationed there. “Take her.”

The men started into the room, but Alesh stopped them with a hand on one of their arms. “And be careful. This one’s dangerous.”

The two men glanced at the crippled old woman then shared a look with each other, but approached the woman warily. She was still smiling that vulpine smile, the expression devoid of any happiness or joy. Alesh thought of Sonya, in the hands of men and women who had given themselves to the Darkness just as the widow had, men and women who had no mercy or compassion within them and knew only hate, only pain. He was suddenly overcome with the almost irresistible urge to charge out of the city and toward where the Broken’s army had last been seen, to carve his way into the enemy ranks until he found Sonya or he died trying.

But there was really no or to it. If he charged blindly into the woods outside Valeria, he knew well enough what would happen, Chosen or not. He would die, uselessly, pointlessly. In doing so, he would abandon Sonya to whatever fate her captors had in store for her. And he wouldn’t just be abandoning Sonya. He’d also be abandoning all those who counted on him—Katherine, Darl, Marta, Rion, the entire city of Valeria.

Keep her safe, Alesh thought, praying to Amedan in the hopes that he would—or could—help. But even as he had the thought, he felt ridiculous. In a world where kindly old grandmothers are secret murderers who enjoy the pain and suffering they cause, how could even the gods themselves guarantee anyone’s safety? Yet, as he left the widow’s manse, headed toward the next home on the list, he whispered the words under his breath. “Keep her safe,” he mumbled. “If you can.”