The kishion shrugged again. He could see the advantage to Derriko. He just didn’t care.
“I will be bedridden for several months,” Derriko said, setting down the goblet. He arranged the sheaf of papers. “I have enough servants and warriors to protect me until the winter is over. And there’s another way you can be useful to our cause.”
The kishion folded his arms and cocked his head.
“The Victus of Dahomey has requested a kishion for an assignment. You know Corriveaux Tenir?”
The kishion nodded slowly. Dahomey was where Sorieul had wanted to be taken. “I’ve heard of him.”
“Corriveaux is clever. He will do well. He’s engaged in a ploy to upset the King of Comoros’s succession.”
The kishion frowned. “He wants me to murder King Bannon?”
“No. He wants you to poison his daughter. The heir. Not to kill her. But to make her believe that her life is in danger. For years she’s been groomed by Chancellor Walraven. If we can turn her fully to our side, she will be a great strength in helping restore the hetaera to power. Go to Lisyeux and report to Corriveaux.”
Dahomey. He thought again of Sorieul’s eyes, her plea to be taken there. He had never gone against his orders before. Never given them a reason not to trust his loyalty.
He hadn’t considered himself a slave, as she was. That thought made something sour in his mind. Did he have any choices anymore?
“What’s wrong?” Derriko asked. His brow wrinkled with concern.
“Nothing,” replied the kishion. “When do you want me to go?”
“Tomorrow is soon enough. I will commune with Corriveaux through the Leering and tell him you’re coming. I will tell him that I am sending my best. I know you won’t fail me.”
The kishion looked at the big man, helpless in his bed. He realized how easy it would be to kill him. How his position of trust could undermine Derikko’s illusion of safety. No, the kishion wasn’t a slave. If he wanted to, he could change his fate. He could be his own master. He served Derriko because it suited him. Their secret acts, hidden from the sight of the world, were changing kingdoms and principalities. He was the bringer of change.
“I won’t,” said the kishion. He nodded to his master and turned to leave.
Dahomey. What new secrets would be learned there?
King Bannon’s only child. What kind of person was she? What was her name again? Maia? He shut the door behind him and went in search of a place to rest.
Chancellor Walraven twisted the handle and opened it. A bead of perspiration had gathered on his brow, and he wiped it away. Inside the room, there was only one person, an older woman with crinkled gray-gold hair and tight features. It was a sitting room, with only a few stuffed benches. She rose from one of them.
“Were you followed?” she asked him.
“No, Sabine. I made sure of it. Yet still, it’s a risk meeting you like this.”
“I’m glad you came,” she replied. “Meeting here in Pry-Ree was the safest course.”
“I know you are fully aware of the risks, High Seer.”
His stomach was knotted with worries. When he had received her summons, he’d dreaded this meeting. If any of the other Victus learned that he was betraying the order, his death would be a gruesome one.
She clasped his hands in hers. “Dark days lie ahead, Chancellor. You know I cannot involve myself directly in what will come. I must do as the Medium commands me. I had a vision recently. It is what prompted me to summon you.”
“My lady, your gift is truly exceptional. Was it a vision of your granddaughter?”
“No. Although I feel it relates to her somehow. In my vision, I saw my trusted hunter, Jon Tayt, lying in his own blood, struck with grievous wounds. There was another man there, one with a scarred face. A kishion, I think.”
The scars reminded Walraven of Derriko’s trusted killer. He waited, listening keenly.
“They were in the cursed shores, Chancellor. In Dahomey. I saw a woman who had been hiding approach the bodies. She was a healer, a slave of the Naestors. Without her aid, Jon Tayt would have died. I asked the Cruciger orb who she was, and it gave me only a name. Sorieul. She needs to be there on that day. My authority does not reach Naess. But yours does. Can you summon her, Chancellor? I can have my ship take her to Dahomey.”
“I-I believe I can arrange it,” said Walraven. He ran his fingers through his untamed gray hair.
“Please do,” Sabine said. She gripped his hands and squeezed them harder. “We will not see each other again, Chancellor. Until I come to Naess as a prisoner. Thank you for doing what you’ve done to protect my granddaughter’s life. She will not be seduced by the Victus. Have faith in her.”
Walraven nodded. “It grieves me that she trusts in me so much. I feel like I’ve failed her.”
“No, Chancellor. She will know the truth in the end. That you saved her.”
He sighed. “Thank you, Sabine. I will do as you command.”
The kishion had died. His soul had departed his body, which lay in the tangled growth of the blighted landscape near the Lost Abbey. He felt something tugging at him, a force that was invisible as well as all-powerful. He didn’t want to go to the afterlife. He stared at his dead body, feeling grief and despair.
And then he saw a woman appear through the thick moss-covered trees. Although she wore a cloak, her size and gait reminded him of someone he’d met long ago. When she reached the scene, she lowered the cowl, and he started, recognizing her. It was Sorieul.
The hunter groaned in pain. She knelt down and tended his wounds, suturing the cuts the kishion had inflicted on him in their final confrontation. The kishion stared at her, in disbelief, feeling that infernal tugging at his soul. Then, her work was done, and she rose from the hunter’s body. He’d fallen unconscious from the sleeping draft she’d given him.
Then Sorieul came over to him. She knelt by his body. He tried to touch her, but his ghost-hand couldn’t be felt. A thousand regrets filled him.
Then he saw her put her hand on his head. She raised her other hand to the sky, and with a trembling voice she said, “Krywult, by the authority of the High Seer of Pry-Ree, I Gift you with life.”
Jeff Wheeler
Wall Street Journal bestselling author Jeff Wheeler took an early retirement from his career at Intel in 2014 to write full-time. He is a husband, father of five, and a devout member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Jeff lives in the Rocky Mountains.
Facebook: muirwoodwheeler
Twitter: @muirwoodwheeler
SUMMER 2020
SHACKLES
by Michael Wisehart
22,000 words
Chapter 1
“YOU’RE GOING TO get us killed, Ferrin, or worse—captured.”
Ferrin smiled. His twin sister, Myriah, had always held a flare for the dramatic. He shook his mop of red hair out of the way, loose beads of sweat scattering as he landed another hard swing of his mallet on the anvil. The rhythm of each stroke was a song to which he could pair his heart, the beats as steady as the life pumping through his veins.
His smithy was a humble affair. A large kiln sat at the back, taking up nearly a quarter of his workspace. Its hearth glowed with fresh coals, the heat a familiar comfort that Ferrin found invigorating. Next to the kiln was a cooling tank, rung with a variety of tongs, hammers, and swages. Covering every inch of the stone walls were racks of tools and molds. Pieces of metal of all shapes and sizes lay in what might seem haphazard piles on the floor, but each pile was organized by type, future use, and amount of time required to forge.