the screech of a hawk jolted Asher awake.
Grasping at the oars that had nearly slipped out of his hands, he glanced up at an indigo sky—dusk had settled without him even noticing. A white hawk circled above.
Grim had awoken him just in time. Asher had cursed that bird for following him from The Royal City, yet he was grateful to it now. The journey across the great lake had felt endless, and fatigue had nearly bested him. Asher had begun rowing just after midday and traveled his way south under a bright winter sky. But eventually, his lack of sleep over the past few days caught up with him; sleep had finally pulled him down into its embrace.
Asher blinked furiously. His eyes burned and felt as if they were filled with grit. His back and arms ached from rowing all afternoon. He was also chilled to the marrow. Yet when he glanced over his shoulder, there in the distance lay his destination. The lights of Thornmere burned orange, glittering off the still waters of the lake.
The last rosy hues of the sunset were draining from the western sky, and the first of the stars twinkled overhead. From this distance he couldn’t make out any details of the lake town; Thornmere was nothing more than a dark bulk silhouetted against the sky.
Heaving in a deep breath, Asher gripped the oars and resumed rowing, beginning his last stretch of the journey.
Around three furlongs directly south, he could now make out a long dock which thrust out from a massive central pier and the outlines of merchant barges and fishing vessels that bobbed along it. Thornmere was the biggest settlement in the area and a meeting point for traders. However, at this hour the dock would be largely deserted. The men who worked there would be likely drinking at a dockside tavern.
Even so, Asher didn’t aim his boat for the jetty. He wanted to slip into town quietly and find a discreet place to tie up his boat—a spot where he could leave as quietly as he’d arrived. Thornmere was now an occupied town; he needed to be a shadow here.
Asher rowed his small rowboat in a wide arc before angling back to the western edge of town. As he approached the far end of one of the many smaller wharves that jutted out from the main pier, he slowed his rowing. It was a windless evening, and the splash of his oars might alert any prowling soldiers to his presence.
Slowly, the boat floated under the edge of the wharf, bumping against one of the huge pillars holding it out of the water. It was dark under here. However, as Asher’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he was able to make out a forest of supports around him, illuminated by the odd ribbon of light filtering through the cracks in the wooden planks above.
Tying his boat up to a rusted iron brace, Asher then stripped off his fur mantle and bundled it into his pack. As soon as he removed his cloak, the cold night air seemed to bite through the layers of clothing he wore underneath. He’d left his enchanter’s robes behind, favoring the leather and wool garments of a merchant or artisan.
Asher shouldered his pack and swung over the side of the boat into the water. Although he’d braced himself for it, the chill took his breath away. The lake was deep here too. He couldn’t touch the bottom so he struck out toward the edge of the wharf.
He swam to the first wooden pillar. It was slippery, covered in lake weed and slime, and impossible to climb. A hacking cough from above made Asher freeze for a moment, treading water as he strained his neck up to see. Male voices followed. Two soldiers grumbling over their long shift. Another cough ensued, before one of the soldiers spat over the side of the wharf.
Asher heard the spittle hit the water just a foot or two from where he treaded water.
He waited until he heard the heavy clump of their boots moving off, before he swam to the next pillar. That one was no good either; he could find nothing to get a grip on. Fortunately, two pillars along he found one with iron bars embedded into the side. A tight smile crept across his face. There would be a few of these about, needed for maintenance on the pier.
He glanced up, wondering if Grim was still circling overhead, looking out for him. Then he began to climb. Even with the bars, it was hard going. His boots kept slipping, and his wet clothes weighed him down. He was also careful, for he had no idea who was lurking in the gloom above.
Breathing hard, Asher reached the top and heaved himself up over the edge. He glanced up to find himself at the end of a narrow alleyway. Lit by a single guttering lantern, and barely wider than two yards, the alley led between two high timber buildings.
Asher climbed to his feet, shrugged off his pack, and removed his cloak from it. His mantle was slightly damp but not soaking like the rest of him. He cast it over his shoulders, grateful for a barrier against the chill. Now that he was out of the water, his teeth were starting to chatter. Clenching his jaw tight, Asher walked down the alley, boots squelching.
He’d made it—reached Thornmere safely. Now his search could begin. Only Asher didn’t feel like celebrating. He was bone-tired, hungry, and needed somewhere warm and dry to rest.
He didn’t want to think about the reason he was here either. His only consolation was that finding Princess Ninia in a kingdom this size would be like looking for a pebble on a shingle beach—near impossible.
Asher pulled up the hood of his fur cloak, hunching his shoulders against the cold. His breath steamed in front of him as he walked. Emerging from the alley, he entered a wider thoroughfare. A row of lanterns cast a deep, golden glow over the buildings, illuminating a wooden sign with the street’s name painted upon it: Trout Walk.
There weren’t many folk about, something which made Asher nervous. If he came across soldiers they were more likely to question him.
Had Anthor imposed a curfew?
He was halfway down the street, heading toward the center of town, when a small, lean figure lurched out of the shadows. The stink of ale hit Asher. The young man, clad in leathers and a tattered woolen cloak, stumbled across the walk a few paces, before he spotted Asher.
A knife flashed out, surprisingly swift despite the youth’s drunken state. “Your purse,” he rasped. In the lantern light Asher saw his attacker was young, barely out of boyhood, with a badly pock-marked face. His eyes were small and hard.
Asher jumped back, out of reach of the flashing blade, and gathered the Light with his right hand. The lantern nearest flared, a bright tongue of flame erupting from it. With a flick of his wrist, Asher brought a bolus of lamplight into his palm and flung it in the face of the lad, who was lunging at him once more.
His attacker gave a strangled yell and leaped back. However, unlike most folk—who, when faced with the Light backed off immediately—this young man only let it cow him for an instant. A heartbeat later he was back, slashing his knife and cursing.
Asher dodged the blade and gathered the Light again. This time he brought it down hard across the back of the youth’s head. His attacker let out a cry and sprawled. Asher leaped forward and slammed his foot down on the hand grasping the knife, grinding it into the planks.
The young man wailed. “Filthy pig dog bastard.”
Asher reached down and plucked the knife off the walkway, pocketing it. “That’s right,” he muttered, wishing his drunken assailant would keep his voice down. His cursing would bring soldiers running. “Best leave me alone.”
He stepped away and circled around the prone figure, half expecting him to leap to his feet and come after him again. He appeared crazed enough. Instead, the youth rolled onto his side, cradling his crushed hand. “Enchanter turd,” he snarled, before spitting on the planks between them. “Shadows take you and your kind.”
Asher didn’t reply. He was already moving on, heading toward the end of Trout Walk, although he found himself throwing wary glances over his shoulder at where his attacker had now sat up. He’d heard enchanters weren’t well liked in Thûn, and it seemed the tales were true. Asher glanced down, turning over his right palm as he did so. The eight-pointed star, darkly outlined with a pale center glowed in the lamplight.
I’ll put on some gloves tomorrow.
A short while later Asher reached Broad Walk, the town’s main thoroughfare, where he finally found signs of life. Men in oilskins loitered outside the entrances to taverns, and scantily-clad whores, furs draped around their shoulders to keep the cold at bay, wandered slowly down the walk. As she sauntered by, one of the women made eye contact with Asher and drew back her cloak, revealing a low cut damask gown underneath. Her skin was pale with cold, but she had a smile fixed upon her painted mouth. “In the mood for some company tonight, handsome?”
Asher flashed her an apologetic smile, shook his head, and moved on. He wasn’t in the mood for anything except a hot meal and a warm bed.
A few yards ahead he spied two men clad in black leather with blood-red cloaks rippling down their backs advancing toward him. Asher bowed his head, hoping they wouldn’t look too closely and see that his cloak was damp and the clothing underneath sodden. He was glad he’d drawn his hood up, obscuring his long white-blond hair. It was a feature that always made him stand out in a crowd.
He felt the soldiers’ gazes slide over him, assessing him, but they didn’t call out. He walked on, unmolested.
Farther on, the aroma of spice mixed with fish wafting out from a tavern reminded him of his empty belly. Asher went inside, where he ordered a bowl of fish stew and half a loaf of coarse bread.
The tavern was crowded, packed with men drinking from huge, frothing tankards. The roar of drunken voices and laughter, mixed with the rank odor of sweat and a fug of wood smoke from the two hearths burning either end of the room, gave the tavern an oppressive atmosphere. Asher wasn’t keen to linger. His eyes burned, and his back and shoulders ached from his row across the lake. He just wanted to sleep.
Unfortunately, the tavern-owner had no rooms free for the evening, and so Asher paid for his meal and left the tavern to continue his search for lodgings. Outdoors, the chill had deepened. It was a clear night, and the stars stretched overhead in a thick blanket against the inky void beyond.
Asher drew his mantle close and headed farther up Broad Walk, hoping to find a room at the inn the tavern-owner had recommended.
He had no luck there, nor at any of the other inns he tried. Each was full, as they’d been forced to billet Anthor soldiers, leaving no space for other travelers. Most of the inn-keepers were a surly, unfriendly lot, although Asher wasn’t surprised by their cool welcome. The occupation had put everyone on the edge.
Eventually, Asher found a room above a butchery; one of the serving wenches in the last inn he’d tried had taken pity on him. “My brother rents out the attic room above his shop,” she’d murmured to him. “It’s on Eel Walk.”
Eel Walk was in a rough part of town. It was a long wharf near the docks where brothels, dicing dens, and some of the seedier taverns crammed in. Unsurprisingly, there were plenty of Anthor soldiers here too, although the crowds of drunken dockworkers helped Asher pass by unnoticed.
The butcher wasn’t happy to be disturbed. However, once he heard his sister had sent Asher, he reluctantly agreed to let him stay. Although he charged one silver talent a night—many times the going rate in town.
Asher was too exhausted to haggle.
Paying the butcher and bidding him goodnight, he made his way up to the attic. He carried a small oil lantern, which lit up the rickety wooden stairwell in a pale glow. The room was tiny and the ceiling so low that Asher had to stoop his head to avoid hitting it. Although cramped and sparsely furnished, with nothing more than a single pallet and a nightstand, it was clean. The linen on the bed looked fresh, and the room smelled of lye.
Asher threw his pack on the pallet, hung up his cloak, and crossed to the dormer window. The shutters were open, letting in the icy night air. Asher inhaled the scent of woodsmoke, with underlying notes of rotting fish and urine. A shrill screech made him glance skyward then, and he saw Grim swooping down toward him, wings outstretched. Asher drew back from the window and gave the hawk space to land.
Grim settled onto the ledge before he hunched, fixing Asher in a hard stare.
“Not now,” Asher muttered.
He turned his back on Grim, crossed to the sleeping pallet, and sat down with a groan. Right now he felt every one of his thirty-three winters. He pulled off his wet boots before looking up to find Grim still watching him. Asher scowled at the bird. “Don’t look at me like that … I don’t have the answers.”
He got up and closed the shutters, shutting Grim outside.
That damn bird thought it was his conscience, following him around and fixing him with accusing stares. He wondered if Grim knew why he was here; the hawk sometimes watched him as if it did.
The trip south had given Asher plenty of time to think about the task Irana had given him.
“Track down the princess, and when you do—kill her and her guardian.”
Thornmere seemed the obvious place to begin his hunt. It was the biggest town for leagues and the nearest one to the Rithmar border. Tomorrow he’d start asking questions, although he’d need to be careful, for he imagined the King of Anthor was also looking for the girl.
If he hasn’t found her already.
Asher returned to the bed and lay back on the mattress with a groan, his gaze fixing upon the low beams above his head.
Why did I agree to this? He wasn’t an assassin. He’d killed in self-defense, and in battle, but never in cold blood. I should have refused Irana.
And yet the thought was almost unthinkable. One didn’t refuse an order from the High Enchanter of the Order of Light and Darkness. When he’d finished his apprenticeship at eighteen, and had the mark of the order tattooed upon the flesh of his right palm, he’d pledged his body and soul, and sworn obedience to the order. He’d now lived as an enchanter for over twenty years. A different life seemed unthinkable. No, this task needed to be done—he would just have to shut off his mind to it.
“The girl’s dangerous.” Irana’s words haunted him, strengthening his resolve. “She has to die … there’s too much at risk.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the winter’s night settled over Asher then, a sense of fatality. There would be no coming back from this. He knew this had to be done—just why did it have to be him? He could feel righteous about it—tell himself that he was doing the world a favor—but the truth was that if he ever found the princess, and succeeded in his mission, he’d carry her ghost with him forever.