Game of Towers and Treachery (The Shadow's Apprentice Book 2) Read online

  When Shangar’s obsidian gaze continued to rove suspiciously over the street behind her, Despiris gestured impatiently. “Well? Find another sector to scout, you big ox.”

  Huffing out a guttural breath, the gargoyle turned reluctantly and moved so she was out of his wingspan before taking to the sky as ordered.

  Relief tingled through Despiris, confronting a gargoyle not for the faint of heart. But then she remembered the scrap of gauze, and the reason she’d gambled on the beast not having Clevwrith’s scent. Frowning, she stooped to retrieve the bloody scrap. She would bet anything it was from her little patch-up session in the throne room. Never had she provided the beasts with something of Clevwrith’s to track. Especially disguised by sewer fumes, Clevwrith should have been undetectable to their senses in his current location.

  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t track her. With something so saturated in her essence… The beasts were probably so familiar with her scent now that they could track her throughout the entire kingdom.

  Again with the loopholes, ay, Lady Verrikose? The beastress had obviously tired of Despiris giving her goons the slip. She was a canny, formidable adversary.

  Clevwrith forgotten in the sewer beneath her, Despiris turned her thoughts toward a counter-move to keep the pesky noblewoman and her beastly spies off her back.

  You want to play this game, my lady? Very well, then. Let’s see just how well your dogs can follow a scent.

  9

  Restlessness

  “Beware a restless soul, for he is subject to impulse and reckless persuasion.” – Wayward words of wisdom.

  *

  On her way back to the palace, she swiped a cloak off a drunk gentleman passed out in an alley. Going straight to the throne room for her usual debriefing, she reported, “He got away. But not before I snatched this straight off his shoulders. So I’m getting closer.” She dangled the garment in front of her, and Lady Verrikose, having her nightcap, now, in place of tea, took the bait seamlessly.

  “Well. It’s about time you had something to show for your efforts. Finally, something we can use.” Snapping her fingers like she owned the place, she got a guard’s attention. “You there. Be a dear, and put this item in isolation. Handle it delicately. No one is to touch it. I want the scent intact for the beasts. Have Mr. Ophelious send a gargoyle for a scenting as soon as can be arranged.”

  Despiris suppressed a grin. She handed the cloak to the guard, and then made up a story about how she’d found Clevwrith lurking down Hannobeth Street, trying to mingle with the known flocks of homeless there and pass as a common beggar. “Hiding in plain sight,” she said. “It’s his thing.”

  Thanking her for her report, the king dismissed her to clean up and retire for the night. And while Despiris had spent the better part of her return to the palace dreaming about a hot bath to ease her aching body and wash the sewer from her form, she caught a glimpse of the snowfall drifting past the windows on her way out of the throne room and changed tactics. Icing her entire body sounded somehow even more blissful than a bath.

  Bypassing her room, she led Hanzel on an impromptu quest through the palace back to the outdoors, where she no doubt furthered his bemusement by lying down on a bank of snow, and sinking into the numbing cold like it was Heaven.

  *

  Despiris had just gotten to sleep – after a twice-as-long bath to thaw the cold back out of her freezing limbs – when a knock from Hanzel woke her.

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” she asked when she opened the door to her chamber, and found him there looking as fresh and focused as ever.

  “In clever moments, and even cleverer places,” he replied stoically.

  Despiris rubbed her eyes, trying to look properly bleary and disoriented so it wasn’t obvious she’d expected this interruption. Fortunately, utter exhaustion came naturally. “Did you wake me just to tell me that?”

  “You’re the one who asked, my lady.”

  “Right. Of course. What is it, then?”

  “The king requires an audience.”

  “At this hour? Does he share the clever bed map and sleep schedule you observe?”

  “And here I thought the Master of the Shadows was the authority on such matters.”

  Despiris stifled a yawn. “I thought the same, once. Until I met you.”

  Unblinking, Hanzel stayed focused. “I will escort you to the dungeon.”

  “The dungeon?” Sighing, Despiris retreated into her room to dress. She did not suppose it would do to show up to the dungeon in her nightgown.

  It had taken her a while to get used to the nightgown. Her first few nights in the palace, she’d ignored it outright. But that meant either sleeping in her grubby street clothes, which felt foul in the immaculate bedding, or…naked. And with so many people always rousing her at ungodly hours – which, admittedly, had been mostly during the day, at first – naked was not an ideal alternative to grubby. So at last she had accepted the inevitable, and domesticated herself that far. What could it hurt?

  Well it certainly isn’t convenient changing back into appropriate clothing in the middle of the night to respond to impromptu meetings with the king.

  But she had expected no less. She’d gone to bed knowing she’d only have so long before the call came. And if she didn’t want to look like she was anticipating it, it was prudent to answer the door like she’d had every intention of spending the rest of the night snuggled into her cocoon of satiny, lace-kissed bliss.

  Lacing her boots only halfway up before wrapping the remaining string lengths around her calves and tying them off, she reopened her door and joined Hanzel in the hall. She tied her hair up as they walked, and arrived at the dungeon looking exactly as half-put-together as she’d planned.

  Isavor and his personal guard stood before a cell, flanked by a decidedly unamused Lady Verrikose, flanked by the very uncomfortable Andreda holding her skirt up out of the dungeon muck, flanked by a cross-armed Lord Mosscrow who would have blended completely with the shadows if it weren’t for his glowing, devil-eyed glower. In spite of his cavernous hood, the man knew how to catch the torchlight in his lurking, creepy eyes.

  Despiris bit back a snicker at the spectacle, at the lot of them looking so inconvenienced, and forced an expression of bewilderment in its stead. Halting before the cell they all regarded, she made a show of peering in to see what had brought them all to this meeting place.

  A familiar, beer-bellied man lay sprawled in the cell, his balding head lolling to the side and his beard-thick face twisted in a drunken snore.

  Yep, that’s the one.

  Shangar – or had it been the other one, Greer? – had tracked the scent on the cloak flawlessly. But that, of course, was a secret Despiris would take to the grave. A bit of mischief she would never take credit for.

  “Would you confirm for us, please,” the king said, “that this is not the Master of the Shadows?”

  It was almost too much to keep from erupting into a fit of giggles there in the dungeon. Despiris had to wonder if that was delirium from pushing herself too hard and following it up with too little sleep, or if she was really that delighted in her own mischief.

  Maintaining her composure, she stared at the king a moment as if to ask, ‘are you serious?’, and then took another look at the prisoner when Isavor waited patiently for her answer. “No, I’m sorry to say.”

  Pursing his lips, the king gave a curt nod. “Thank you, Lady Despiris. I am sorry to have woken you. Please, feel free to return to your chambers.”

  All that, just to confirm what was obvious to everyone. While she feigned mild annoyance, however, she let a small smile slip at last as she turned to make her way back out of the dungeon.

  “Something funny, my lady?” Hanzel asked good naturedly, evidently catching wind of her smirk.

  She covered her tracks seamlessly. “It would seem Shangar has a sense of humor.”

  “Somehow I do not think anyone else will find the joke funny.”

>   It was true. As Despiris reached the end of the cell block, the king’s voice drifted down the torchlit corridor to her ears: “Bring Mr. Ophelious before me. If his creatures cannot properly track a scent, they must be disbarred at once from the hunt. I can’t have a posse of beasts sniffing out the wrong target and terrorizing innocent citizens.”

  Well, that worked out splendidly. Rather self-satisfied, Despiris strutted back to her room with more pep in her step than someone in her state should have been able to muster, and slept like a baby through the rest of the night.

  *

  The beasts were grounded as quickly as they’d been reinstated in the hunt, Isavor unwilling to terrorize innocents. With that put to rest, Despiris allowed herself a breather. A chance to heal and regroup.

  And while she was healing, she took advantage of the opportunity to return to her books. To practice her budding elemental powers. She still could do little but manipulate ripples across the palace fountains or levitate snowflakes over her open palm, but even that abysmal level of control went straight to her head.

  Who’s the real demigod, Clevwrith?

  Of course, she didn’t feel nearly as cocky when she tried heating a cup of water for tea merely by holding it – the opposite of the absent-minded cooling trick that had first clued Clevwrith in to her abilities – and the stubbornly cold teacup went from unresponsive to burning hot in the space of an instant, causing her to release it with a yelp.

  A knock came at her door a moment after the resulting shatter of porcelain all over her floor.

  “Everything alright, my lady?” Hanzel’s voice penetrated from the hallway.

  Rather than grow sheepish and try to cover her tracks, Despiris swept open the door. “Hanzel. Be a dear, and send for another teacup. Mine had an unfortunate sparring session with the flagstones. Actually, make that…four.”

  “Are you expecting company, my lady?”

  “Why, Hanzel. Did you not notice the three lovely ladies sneak through my door this past hour? You have been sleeping, after all,” she teased.

  *

  Cetas Ophelious tugged the covers up further over his face, leaving only his wide, hare-like peepers peeking over the plush, protective barrier. Great, beastly shapes moved outside his window, pacing about the balcony.

  It had been several months, and yet he had not gotten used to them being there. He didn’t suppose he would ever get used to it.

  There were blessed gaps in their skulking about, of course, when Lady Verrikose came to request he release them to her for the day. He lived for the days that they went out Shadowhunting. But, inevitably, they always came home to roost on his balcony. Because he was, of course, their master.

  Indeed, when he had assured Lady Verrikose that she need not ask his permission, that she was welcome to permeate their minds with her gift and take command any time she pleased, she had refused the privilege. He believed her exact words had been,

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Ophelious. The beasts are your jurisdiction. I should never think to overstep in such a way. Besides, do you really think I want to be responsible for a legion of feral beasts? No, no – I shall leave that up to you.”

  It had not made him feel much better about the situation.

  His heart fluttered as a silhouette passed close to the frosty window, a rubbery wingtip squealing briefly against the glass. How was one supposed to sleep with literal monsters outside his window every night?

  You are the beasts’ master, you are the beasts’ master, you are the beasts’ master, he chanted over and over again to himself, but no matter how many times he affirmed it, he didn’t believe it. Who would? Look at me… He was master to nothing, least of all legendary beasts.

  Master of grubworms, maybe. Or dumplings. Or mothballs–

  A snarl from his balcony sent him flinching under the covers. When he sneaked another peek, there seemed to be some sparring session happening between beasts. It would not be the first time the archangel had challenged a gargoyle to a wrestling match, though Cetas was fairly sure it was less of a friendly challenge and more of an endless taunt that goaded the other beast into attacking.

  They were a primal, ill-mannered bunch. The servants were ever sweeping an excess of ravaged feathers off his claw-marked balcony.

  Feathers and manure, thanks to that pegasus creature, Keshgal. He wasn’t even sure the beasts had to eat to survive, seeing as they were merely animated stone figurines, but it would seem they could eat, and evidently quite enjoyed eating, even if they didn’t need to. For the piles of manure were a frequent deposit.

  He did not want to think about what the others might find to delight their tastebuds.

  He supposed he should be thankful there were not heaps of gargoyle dung alongside the manure–

  The latch on his balcony door turned, startling him near out of his wits. Gaze darting to the door, he found the archangel’s frosty silhouette there, preparing to…

  To…

  His heart hiccupped into his throat as the glorious she-beast finished turning the latch, and his door creaked open. In Asborea walked from the sallow moonlight, melting into the shadows of his room.

  Cetas gulped, his heart racing in terror. A creature had never dared cross the master’s threshold uninvited before.

  And he certainly had never invited them.

  There was a moment in which the archangel didn’t move, and he didn’t breathe, and he thought – hoped – they might stay in that dormant state forever, frozen in time, this unprecedented turn of events never progressing past this horrifying stage.

  Alas, Asborea spotted him – all framed-eyeball slit of him – in his bed, and slunk closer across the room.

  He thought about calling out:

  Who goes there?!

  Stop, devil!

  Who dares breach the lair of the master?!

  But when he opened his mouth, what threatened to come out instead was, Please, spare me, I beg you! And anyway his mouth filled with covers, and he all but choked himself trying to find his courage.

  And then he lost track of her in the shadows, and the terror returned tenfold. His eyes darted about, seeing nothing, imagining everything.

  Then the balcony door creaked wider in a chilling breeze, a wedge of moonlight elongating to illuminate the archangel at the foot of his bed.

  She grinned a wide, wicked grin. “Good evening, Master Ophelious.”

  Trying to spit the covers out of his mouth without making it obvious that he had, in fact, had a mouthful of covers, Ophelious sputtered a meek and muffled, “G-good evening, Mistre-…M-madam.” Madam Monster? How in the gods’ names was he supposed to address her?

  However you bloody want, you fool. You are the master. She just addressed you as ‘Master Ophelious’. He could let the slobber-soaked covers fall away and draw himself up to his full midget height and snarl at her like he ran the world, if he only had the guts to do it.

  Of course, he didn’t. So ‘M-madam’ it was. He completely forgot, in the heat of the moment, that he’d taken the liberty of naming her – a beautiful name as well, Asborea – and ought to have just used that.

  “A beautiful evening for hunting,” Asborea specified wistfully. “But alas. We are not permitted to hunt.”

  It was all Cetas could do to keep from fainting. But a master did not faint before his subjects. He could not show weakness! Trembling, he slithered out from under the covers, drawing himself up against the headboard. Bracing himself against the headboard might have been more accurate, but he hoped it might appear a more confident stance. “A t-tragedy, do be sure. But…I f-fail to understand what that h-has to do with me?”

  “A tragedy, you say? Master Ophelious, I don’t think you fully appreciate the situation. It is a tragedy I wish to avoid.”

  “W-what…what do you mean?”

  Asborea placed a hand upon the bed, her long ivory claws immediately drawing the sorcerer’s eyes. All she had to do was flex, and she could shred the entire
bedroom.

  But even more terrifying than that was her knee, sliding up next to her hand. It bore her weight onto the mattress, and Ophelious wasn’t sure he didn’t wet the sheets.

  Like a stalking feline, she climbed onto the bed. “Do you know what happens when wild beasts are detained, Master Ophelious? Restricted to a small balcony, forced to curb their carnal instincts?” With every word she slunk closer, sultry and coiled, folding her glorious white wings to fit underneath the canopy.

  “I-I…I’m sure I don’t…” He gulped, trying and failing to keep his tongue from retreating down his throat. Every piece of him wished it could cease to exist, could disappear into the sheets, the headboard, the ether. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

  One clawed hand came down beside him, pulling the covers taut over his legs. The other pressed down opposite, pinning him in place. The archangel crouched over him – straddled him, her daunting prowess forcing him to press into the headboard until he heard his spine crack.

  Most distracting was her skin-tight, red-scaled bodysuit, drawing his gaze briefly down past her throat, but only until an ivory claw snagged his chin, pulling his focus back up. The moonlight glinted in her predatory amber eyes.

  “We grow restless,” she hissed, and if Ophelious hadn’t wet the bed a moment before…he certainly did then. Asborea’s claw traced down the length of his throat, then his clavicle. “You speak of tragedy, but I do not believe you know the meaning of the word.”

  He blinked rapidly, trying to hold her daunting gaze of gold. But there was something hypnotic in those eyes, and he feared if he looked into them for too long, he would fall under some spell. She was a magical creature, after all. Even if that magic had stemmed from him, one never knew to what end that magic conspired. After all, it had never been a conscious thing, turning stone to life. There was not a single part of it that he understood or controlled.

  If he had never controlled the magic itself, why did anyone think he controlled the product of that magic?