“How kind of you.” He released her wrist. “And you must learn to be more light upon your feet. The day is young, and the streets still empty. I heard you stomping on the rooftop the entire time you were up there. There are cows better suited to stealth.”

  Erin retreated a step, her ego bruised. She thought she’d been quiet, but then again her mind had been focused on the drop inside. Zusa would be furious with her. They spent as much time learning to be quiet and stealthy as they did sparring with a blade.

  “You exaggerate,” she said, clanging her sabers together. “I may not rival a mouse, but surely I am better than a cow. A goat, perhaps? How about a chicken?”

  Gray drew his swords. His head tilted, and though the hood still concealed his face in shadow, it did not hide his smile.

  “Cluck, cluck, Erin. Shall I pluck your feathers?”

  She swiped at him, a casual hit to indicate their sparring had begun. He deflected it with a quick turn of his wrist, so effortlessly done it barely looked like he moved.

  “I don’t know,” Erin said, bouncing light on her feet. “Are you a fox, come to the hen house?”

  The smile lost a bit of its amusement. “Not a fox. I have ever been a spider.”

  He assaulted her with a trio of hits, each coming from different directions but all ending with a downward chop straight at her forehead. Her forearms ached as she blocked with both of her sabers, and the sound of steel began its song. She countered, found herself on her ass in seconds as he dropped low, his leg sweeping her feet out from her under.

  “Again,” she said, pushing immediately back to a stand.

  He paced before her, weapons low, and then he was spinning. The space between them vanished. Erin panicked, unsure where he would attack from. Knowing she should at least act, she thrust both blades forward into that confusing mess of cloaks and limbs.

  Gray smashed them aside so hard she lost her grip on one, and then other went wide. The blur of movement ended with the sharp edge of a short sword on her throat. Gray peered down at her, his expression giving away nothing.

  “You attacked instead of fleeing when confused,” he said. “At least your instincts are being honed properly. But you’re still reacting only based on familiarity and training. Watch my feet. Watch my hands. See in your mind the paths they will take based on my movements, and then judge accordingly. A spin like that limits me. Know those limits.”

  Erin retrieved her saber, and she repeated the wisdom in her mind, trying to burn it into memory. Hands and feet, her mother had told her repeatedly. Erin thought she did that when sparring, but Gray was giving her a solid lesson on the enormous chasm between what she thought she knew and what she actually knew.

  “Again,” she said, clanging her weapons together.

  Five hits, and he knocked her to the floor with his elbow. She staggered back to her feet, hiding the pain in her side from the contact.

  “Again.”

  He let her take the offensive this time, blocking and parrying her every attack until it felt like he was the one in control of her own movements. On her last thrust, she realized she was woefully out of position, her saber tip aimed the wrong direction compared to his momentum. The flat edge of a sword smacked the back of her head, and she clenched her jaw to swallow down her cry of pain.

  “Again.”

  Every attack felt wrong, but she tried nonetheless. Every parry was anticipated, but she shoved aside Gray’s swords all the same. Her concentration tightened, all the world seeming to grow in clarity. His speed was too great, his confidence unbreakable. To keep up with him, her own confidence had to grow. Her choices came quicker, often wrong, but better than delayed reactions that, even if made correctly, would still be too slow.

  “Again.”

  Blood on her tongue, more from her split lip.

  “Again.”

  Every part of her body ached, no doubt bruised head to toe.

  “Again.”

  She could feel it as she assaulted Gray anew. Her mother sought to impart incredible skill with a blade, to wield it like a dancer upon the battlefield to become thoroughly untouchable. Gray sought something simpler. Something more primal. With every hit, every clash of steel, he turned thought into instinct. And he did not dance. He won with brutal savagery. He won by being better. Stronger. Faster.

  The hilt of his sword struck her forehead. Her vision swam, but she would not stop, damn it, she would not be defeated. The world spun, but her body spun with it. Sheer will kept her saber thrusting. No hesitation. No turning it to the blunted side. His cloak shifted, his off-hand moving to parry, but her twisting stumble worked to her advantage.

  She felt resistance, then nothing, as she went staggering past Gray. Her heart hammered in her ears as she spun. His back was to her. His swords rest low in his grip, their tips nearly touching the floorboards.

  “Gray?” she said when he did not move.

  The older man turned, and a faint splash of blood had soaked into his shirt from where she cut his chest. It was thin, a scratch that would never prove lethal without some sort of poison, but it was there. Erin thought she’d feel more excited at the victory, but she only felt tired and out of breath.

  What she also did not expect was the sheer pride in Gray’s voice when he said, “Even wounded, disoriented, and beaten, you fought on. Well done, Erin. Well done.”

  There it was, the elation she should feel. It came not from the hit itself, but hearing those words of praise. She fought back the impulse to smile. No, not yet. They had a deal, and she would show no pleasure in the victory until that deal was honored.

  “A name,” she said, standing tall.

  His smile hardened. “Are you certain?”

  Erin jammed her sabers into their sheaths.

  “You don’t seem like someone to break a promise, so why ask?”

  He looked away. He…he seemed uncertain. Nervous. Why? It was so uncharacteristic of him, a sudden lacking in the confidence that exuded from his every movement. It only ignited her curiosity.

  “Because I want you to be certain,” he said. “I want you to understand that things must change once the knowledge is given.”

  Erin crossed her arms, summoning every bit of stubbornness that had allowed her to survive with a mother like Zusa Gemcroft.

  “I’m not afraid of change,” she said. “And I’m not afraid of you. A name, Gray. Your real name, or I leave, and do not return.”

  Gray sheathed his swords and pulled the hood from his head. His face was covered with purple splotches and recent scabs, making her wonder for a moment what he’d been up to since their last sparring session. That wondering disappeared when his icy eyes looked upon her. She felt like they pierced through the shadows of her soul.

  “Perhaps you are strong enough,” he said at last. “Then hear this, and know. My name, the name I bestowed upon myself in a distant past as a child of Mordeina’s streets, is Thren Felhorn.”

  Erin’s entire body locked in place. Her mind froze, and her heart seemingly halted. Her mouth opened, but she could not form words. The old man’s gaze held her prisoner.

  “Erin,” he continued. “I am your grandfather.”

  “You…” Her mind tumbled and broke. The stories her mother had told her, and those she read in Legacy of the Watcher, twisted and fought against his words. “You’re dead.”

  “I was.”

  “Haern killed you. The Watcher killed you.”

  This man she had known as Gray grinned at her.

  “Indeed, he thought he did. I took precautions.”

  Every single word and deed the man had done in their time together paraded through her mind at a rapid clip. His attention. His care for her, seemingly without reason. His knowledge of her father, and his role as the Watcher.

  I have ever been a spider.

  Her cheeks burned. Felhorn. She had named herself Felhorn.

  Erin rocked backward as if punched. Her instincts had screamed Gray was dangerous, and yet cared for her, and they were both far more correct than she ever guessed. Yet did that actually mean safety? This was a man who had attempted to kill his own son twice, and supposedly even died for it on the day his Spider Guild was shattered.

  “What does…I don’t know what to say.” She shook her head. “What I’ve read. What my mother has told me of you. How much of it is the truth, and how much are lies?”

  “It depends on what they told you,” Thren said.

  “That you were a horrible man,” she said in a voice she could not stop from quivering. Her emotions overwhelmed her, making a mockery of her training. This…this old man couldn’t be him, he couldn’t be a ghost of her past, a face given to a specter known only in story. “That you killed without mercy. That you ruled Veldaren like a tyrant, and nearly destroyed my family when the underworld went to war.”

  “Then I am who you believe I am.”

  No guilt. No uncertainty. Erin’s insides twisted and danced.

  Thren Felhorn.

  It couldn’t be.

  But it was.

  “I have to go,” she said, and rushed for the door.

  “Wait.”

  His command halted her in her tracks. She shivered, afraid of him, truly afraid of him, for the very first time. She turned, looking upon the older man’s face and seeing a legacy as old and broken as her father’s.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “that until your arrival in Angkar, and your entry into the tournament using my name, I did not know of your existence. Your father’s tryst with Zusa was a secret, your birth hidden from even him.”

  “Is that supposed to make this better?” she asked, hating the persistent shakiness of her voice.

  “How you react is on you, Erin. I only wish that you understand I was ignorant of your life until recently. Had I known, I would have sought you out far sooner. I would have revealed my name, and my face, so I might be a part of your life.”

  “Why?” she asked. “So you could train me? Turn me into the monster you always wanted Haern to be?”

  Thren stood tall, and it seemed a dozen years suddenly added to his face. “I wanted the world for Aaron. I want it for you, too, if you would accept what gifts an old man may yet impart.”

  Too much. It was all too much. Erin sprinted out the door of the shipwright. Her grandfather did not follow.

  Her grandfather. Even the word was nonsense in her mind as she ran, and ran, weaving through the early morning traffic flowing toward the docks. She ran without thought, without purpose, just running and wishing she could leave the tumultuous monster of emotions that chased her far, far behind.

  25

  TARLAK

  “I just want to look over the goods,” Tarlak told the porter. “You don’t need to make a fuss about it.”

  “Protecting my clients’ goods ain’t making a ‘fuss’,” the bearded man argued. “It’s doing my damn job.”

  It took all of Tarlak’s willpower not to roll his eyes. The porter was a big man, his arms full of tattoos and muscle. Behind him were two enormous warehouses with multiple entrances gated off with double doors that reminded Tarlak a little bit of a farm barn.

  “And I applaud you for your dedication,” Tarlak said. “But I’m also doing my job, which I must remind you, was given to me by the gods-damned queen.”

  The porter hawked and spat. “Which you ain’t proven. Sorry, but I don’t got to listen to some stranger in ugly robes until I see paper with signatures that say I do.”

  Tarlak crossed his arms, his patience, already frayed thin, reaching its final straw.

  “The entire castle is busy preparing for today’s big fancy ceremony,” he said. “I’m not going to bother Queen Brynn because you aren’t willing to believe a word I’m saying. One last chance, my good sir. Will you let me in or not?”

  The porter lowered his hand to a short sword strapped to his thigh. “And this is your last chance. Get out easy, or go out with a new scar. Your choice.”

  “My choice?” Tarlak said, beaming a smile. “Well then, I take option three.”

  He waved his hand, flinging ice in a wave. It wrapped around the porter’s feet and ankles, locking him in place.

  “The shit?” the man said, twisting and pulling.

  “Now, now,” Tarlak said before starting another spell. The incantation finished, he blew from his palms as if they were covered with invisible dust. “There’s no need for foul language.”

  The magic washed over the porter. His eyelids drooped and his body went slack. He slumped forward, and Tarlak was quick to catch him. A snap of his fingers, and the ice imprisoning him vanished into smoke.

  “Easy now,” Tarlak said, lowering the man to the ground. “Have a little nap while I look around, all right?”

  That done, Tarlak hurried to the first of the enormous warehouses. All of its wagon entrances were locked, as was the smaller door on one side. His curiosity heightened.

  Something is wrong here, he thought. The porter’s rudeness, while hardly unique to the people of Angkar, still felt much harsher than made sense. What is it you’re hiding?

  No locked door was going to stop Tarlak from finding out. He cracked his knuckles, a little disturbed by how loudly they popped, and then weaved the necessary movements.

  “You’re getting old, Tar,” he muttered as a large stone materialized from his palm and flung forward to smash against the lock. Wood splintered, and the metal within broke so that the door bowed inward. Tarlak pushed it all the way open with his shoulder and then entered the warehouse.

  There were two dozen wagons inside, lined up in rows of three. Some were covered, others not. Tarlak walked through them in the dim light, coughing a little from the dust. He scanned about until finally finding a manifest written on thick, sturdy yellow paper resting atop a squat little table in the corner.

  “There you are,” he said, lifting it and scanning the writing. He looked for a specific symbol, the elaborate ‘C’ of the Connington family.

  It was true that the attacks upon the wagons showed no apparent focus, with both Connington and Gemcroft family merchants assaulted, but while going over the reports, Tarlak had noticed a strange wrinkle. For those merchants that were independent, working for the queen, or loyal to the Gemcrofts, their wagons were attacked both going in and out of Angkar. The Conningtons, however, were always wagons delivering to the city, and never away.

  More interesting was that while claiming to be robbed like all the others, Connington deliveries that had been attacked ended up arriving in Angkar with new crews and claims of still carrying cargo.

  “Everyone else is getting robbed blind,” Tarlak said, spotting a dozen listings with the ‘C’ symbol and tapping the ledger with his forefinger. “But you, they merely kill the escorts and then leave the goods behind? That doesn’t sit right with me. Someone’s playing games.”

  His certainty only grew when he realized what the ledger was telling him. There were ten wagons in total with goods due to be delivered to various Connington facilities, and all ten were being held in the second warehouse, separate from the others.

  Tarlak set the ledger back down on the table and hurried to the exit on the opposite side. He unlocked the door, stepped out into the thin gap between the buildings, and then checked the other door. Locked, as expected. A quick spell fixed that, another stone, even larger, to knock it off its hinges.

  The queen’ll pay for the damages, he told himself as he kicked the broken door to the ground. Daylight spilled into the warehouse, and sure enough he spotted the wagons. All of them were enormous, topped by a pale white cover. Tarlak grinned eagerly at the sight.

  “Let’s see just what you’re smuggling into Brynn’s fair city,” he said, and entered the warehouse.

  He made it three steps before he felt something sharp press against the back of his neck.

  “Tarlak Eschaton?” a feminine voice asked.

  Tarlak lifted his hands slowly, worried at how easily he had been flanked. He’d even checked both sides before stepping in. This was Watcher levels of sneaking.

  “I am,” he said. “And you?”

  The sharpness left his skin.

  “Consider yourself lucky, wizard,” the woman said, ignoring his question. “My brother will find you a fascinating prisoner.”

  Tarlak spun, fire on his fingertips, but his ambusher was faster. The hard metal of a sword hilt smacked him in the forehead. The world spun, and the spell vanished from his hands as his concentration broke. His stomach heaved, and with his balance ruined he dropped onto his back.

  A woman in silver armor peered down at him, a faint smile on her beautiful face.

  “Sleep well, Tarlak.”

  The last thing he saw before her boot struck was a distant blur of wagons, and the dozens of armed men and women stepping out from them with swords and bows in hand.

  26

  HARRUQ

  “You’d think I’d be used to dolling myself up like this,” Harruq grumbled as he adjusted his suit. It’d been specially tailored for him before leaving Mordeina, long dark cloth with a fine silver vest, all designed to not rip or tear when his muscles flexed.

  “I never expected you to get used to it,” Aurelia said, her hands a blur as she curled and looped her hair into numerous braids. The deftness of her fingers was as magical to watch as her actual spellcraft. “But at least it is quick. Shall we talk about the time it has taken to finish my hair, or the efforts to properly don this dress?”

  Harruq and Aurelia were alone in the dressing room offered to them in the royal mansion. His wife stood before an enormous mirror, and while it had indeed taken time to tie the many loops and strings of her blue and crimson corset, she did look ridiculously fine within it.

  “Yeah, but at least you like dresses,” he said, pulling at a collar that felt much too tight despite the tailor insisting all the measurements were correct.

  “I like looking beautiful,” Aurelia said, using another ribbon to pin yet one more braid of her auburn hair up behind her head. “Dresses are how I currently prefer to accomplish that.”