Until now.
The fortress he stood inside wasn’t his friend. It hadn’t been during his childhood, and it sure as hell wasn’t now. Abandoned but still intact, the walled city was a beast full of bitter memories.
Henrik shook his head. So many years. So much hurt, and yet the stronghold he’d once called home hadn’t changed. Thick walls still soared toward pinpoint stars, standing strong to protect the sanctuary at its center: White Temple. He could see the curved dome from his position overlooking the village square.
Leaping onto the half wall beside the old oak, he crouched low, hitting his haunches to avoid detection. Balanced on the balls of his feet, he stared at the birthplace of his boyhood misery. Less than a league away, surrounded by a cluster of white cottages, the temple shone beneath fickle moonglow, waiting patiently for order to return and chaos to fade.
Godforsaken place. The pit of hell would’ve been easier to bear.
At least for him.
Some might ask—feeling as he did about the temple—why he’d agreed to the mission. Hell, he was still wondering himself. But despising the Goddess of All Things, and her place of worship, didn’t change his purpose. In the end, it came down to one thing: brotherhood. Loyalty and the common bond he shared with his comrades were more important than holding a grudge against a deity who didn’t give a damn about him. Aye, that and the fact he loved to fight. So, aligning himself with the goddess? Henrik bit back a huff. He might not like it, but his capitulation offered the best of both worlds . . . the opportunity to stay with his brothers and the chance to make war on Al Pacii, the Order that had both shaped and poisoned his life.
Searching the top of the stone parapet opposite him, Henrik rechecked his weapons. Leather creaked as he adjusted the harness holding twin swords in place against his back. All good. The curved blades were ready to be used, just like him. With quick hands, he palmed his daggers, ensuring all five slid from their scabbards with ease. Steel hummed against his jerkin. His mouth curved. The hiss of knives never got old. Neither did the feel of well-worn hilts against his palms. Or the satisfaction as he threw one and felled his target.
Strength upon strength. An assassin’s game. One at which he excelled.
With a hum, Henrik sheathed the last of his daggers. After adjusting his bow and quiver of poison-tipped arrows, he turned and jumped from his perch. Grass frozen by winter’s chill crackled beneath his boots as he scanned the garden beyond the great oak. Nothing yet. But his comrades would arrive soon. They’d taken different directions to cover more ground after breaching the postern gate. Like him, his brothers were efficient hunter-killers, and after an hour spent searching the city from different vantage points, Henrik knew each one would be—
A whisper of sound ghosted from his left.
Sensation prickled along his spine.
Unsheathing a dagger, Henrik shifted right and gathered the gloom, disappearing behind a veil of darkness. The cloak of invisibility was new to him—a skill he hadn’t possessed until a month ago. His grip on the knife hilt tightened. Goddamned goddess. Trust her to meddle—to visit him while he slept and . . . well, hell. He didn’t know what she’d done. Not exactly. The result, however, was undeniable. Quantifiable. Unwelcome too. Particularly since magic now hummed in his veins: enlivening his body, sharpening his mind, making him more lethal than ever.
Terrific on one level. The added edge of aggression suited him. The downside, however, was one he struggled to accept. Henrik suppressed a shiver. Christ help him, but . . .
The wizardry fueling the new skill made his skin crawl.
The goddess didn’t understand his aversion. Didn’t agree with it either. All she saw was his heritage, the long line of sorcerers in his bloodline. But Henrik didn’t give a damn about ancient history. He needed the magic to stay where it belonged, in the maternal line of his family, in his younger sister’s veins, and out of his. Too bad the Goddess of All Things didn’t care what he wanted. She no doubt relished his revulsion as she made him into something he couldn’t abide.
Curse her . . . and him too for remembering. For reliving the pain of betrayal, and the goddess’ refusal to protect him from his own mother. For wanting something different for the boy he’d been, and the man he’d become. But making peace with his past wasn’t part of the deal. Not for him. Too much had happened. He couldn’t forgive, and if given half a chance, he’d burn White Temple to the ground. Raze the goddess’ abbey until the Blessed’s holy place was reduced to naught but rubble and ash.
“H?” The soft call drifted, swirling in on the frigid wind.
Henrik sighed. Goddamned Shay. His apprentice might be whipcord smart, but he had a lot to learn. First lesson among many: never compromise a comrade’s position by calling his name. Unless, of course, you wanted to get your arse kicked by said assassin.
That lecture, however, would have to wait.
Separating himself from the gloom, Henrik materialized behind his apprentice.
“Jesu!” Shay swung around, settling into a fighting stance. His eyes flared with surprise, then narrowed as he debated whether to let his fists fly. Henrik hoped he chose to fight. Being inside the walled city made him ache to hit something, and Shay made an excellent target.
“Hellfire, H.” Indulging in a huff, Shay lowered his hands. “I hate it when you do that.”
No doubt. Henrik didn’t like it much either. “And I hate it when you act like an idiot.”
His apprentice tossed him a perturbed look.
“You call me out like that again . . .” he murmured, his tone without an ounce of heat. His pissy mood, after all, wasn’t Shay’s fault. Still he refused to let the infraction go. “I’ll cut off your balls and feed them to you.”
“Stop disappearing into thin air,” Shay said, mouthy as ever. “And I won’t have to break cover to find you.”
Henrik wanted to roll his eyes. He smacked Shay instead, delivering a gentle cuff to the back of his head. “What did you find?”
“More wagon tracks.”
“Fresh?”
“Less than a day old.” Loosing the tension of a long hunt, Shay rolled his shoulders. “Anything to the south?”
“Naught.” Leaping back onto his favorite perch, Henrik balanced on the lip of the wall, his eyes on the abandoned blacksmith’s shop below him. Two years after the mass exodus and yet, the town hadn’t aged a day. All the buildings stood as they always had: well trimmed and tidy, without a single stone out of place. No looting had occurred in the High Priestess of Orm’s absence. Not a single squatter had moved in. And no wonder. Magic breathed inside these walls. Henrik felt it in the air—smelled the stench of it drifting upon the winter breeze—and no one, neither criminal nor regular folk, dared steal from the holy city for fear of incurring the goddess’ wrath. “The bastards are covering their tracks.”
“Good.” A wicked glint in his eyes, Shay joined him atop the wall. “No challenge in easy prey.”
Unable to help himself, Henrik grinned. “There’s hope for you yet, bratling.”
“You bet your arse, sensei,” Shay said, returning his smile.
Henrik gritted his teeth to keep from cringing. Sensei. He hated the title and what it meant. But he’d agreed to teach Shay and complete the younger assassin’s training. So like it or nay, the moniker now fit him like a well-shod shoe. Even so, he couldn’t stop his mind from sliding into the past . . . to a time and place where another sensei ruled. Where all hope fell away, leaving naught but Halál, leader of Al Pacii, and the memory of a boy struggling to survive the brutality of Grey Keep.