The vortex funneled into a curve over the inner bailey and set down.
His feet thumped against slick cobblestone.
Hitting one knee, Halál bowed his head and waited for the fog to retreat. He heard his soldiers land behind him. Black tendrils released him one finger at a time, leaving him kneeling in the center of Grey Keep’s courtyard. High winds buffeted his back. As it blew across the nape of his neck, he pushed to his feet and scanned the battlements rising beyond the Keep. No one stood on the high wall, awaiting him. Which meant Valmont had yet to return home. Halál nodded in satisfaction. His first in command’s absence was an excellent sign. Adept at carrying out orders—even better at covert missions—Valmont must still be at White Temple . . .
Executing members of the Blessed.
The knowledge reassured him. The sudden urge to return to the holy city almost overwhelmed him. He cursed the vortex again. If only the magic would listen. If only he could find the key to controlling it. If only he could transport himself to White Temple and assist Valmont in the killings. But wishing and wanting never made a thing so. Practice coupled with the mind-ease of meditation, however, just might, so . . .
Time to put the day’s disappointment behind him. And start making plans for the future.
Rolling his shoulders to work out the tension, Halál glanced over his shoulder. Flame-orange eyes met his. He nodded, acknowledging his second in command.
Beauvic tipped his chin. “Your orders?”
“Gather the eleven-year-olds,” Halál said, the need for violence rising. He yearned for it more than an opium addict wanted a fix. Brutality always evened him out, and after today, he required peace . . . if not quiet. Watching the boys battle in the fighting pit would smooth out the rough edges left by a bad day. Well that, and something else too. Aye, he might owe his allegiance to Armand now, but Grey Keep and its traditions lived on. Boys would continue to be captured, kept, and trained as assassins, but for a new aim: filling Druinguari ranks instead of Al Pacii, ensuring his army grew. “Put them through their paces.”
“Hand-to-hand?”
A kernel of excitement bloomed. Halál’s mouth curved. “Round shields and short knives.”
Silent per usual, Beauvic didn’t say a word.
“Time to cull the wheat from the chaff, Beauvic,” Halál said, holding his second in command’s gaze. “Let us see who deserves to remain among us.”
With a nod, Beauvic turned toward the barracks and the boys. Halál strode in the opposite direction, toward the Keep and his bedchamber. He longed to see Beauty. Needed to stroke her fine scales and feel her weight as he watched the fight from the rooftop overlooking the pit. Combat would begin within the hour. He wanted to assess each fledgling. Determine their strengths. Assess the weaknesses. Watch every move and knife slash. Witness all the damage done and each blood droplet fall, but . . .
First things first.
He must send out the call, request an audience with Armand. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but Halál refused to hide the day’s setback. Or avoid his new master. Naught but disaster lay in that direction. The truth must be told. Questions needed to be asked and answered. Insight, after all, led to information. Knowledge equaled understanding, which precipitated power. The kind that toppled kingdoms and brought great men to their knees.
Nothing different there.
He’d lived long enough to understand every man possessed a fatal flaw. A weak spot, whether rooted in the collective interests or individual defects. He must discover each one to ensure he inflected maximum damage. Armand would supply what he required—insight and guidance, power and increased skill . . . all the spells Halál requested. An advantage to be sure, except for one thing . . .
Armand would punish him for his failure.
A great deal of agony would ensue. Halál shrugged off the certainty along with the threat. Pain wasn’t the problem. He could handle anything the dark one threw at him. But as he mounted the steps, he left nothing to chance, practicing what he would say to his new master. Bad news first. Good news second. Aye, ’twas no doubt the best strategy. Particularly since relaying the news that Valmont sat at the heart of the enemy—inside White Temple, doing exactly what Armand expected, decimating the Blessed to ensure the goddess lost ground—would improve Armand’s mood. Which without a doubt would see Halál’s punishment reduced a hundredfold.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sliding to a stop on icy cobblestones, Cosmina took cover behind a small cottage. Back flat against its stone wall, she paused to catch her breath . . . and prayed she’d gone undetected. ’Twas hard to tell. She couldn’t hear much of anything. Her heart refused to cooperate, pounding inside her chest, making blood rush in her ears and listening almost impossible. Nowhere near optimal. Even more dangerous. Cold nipping at her, she pressed her hand against the wall of her chest, willing her heartbeat to slow.
Gods, she needed to pull herself together. Right now. This instant. Before she gave herself away. If that happened, she wouldn’t last long inside White Temple.
Not now that the Druinguari stood inside the gates.
Fear tightened its grip, squeezing around her rib cage. She fought the lockdown and forced her lungs open, refusing to let terror win. No matter how afraid, she needed to go on. Her mission left no room for hesitation. One way or another, she must find the others—intercept the Blessed, secret each one to safety, and ensure all arrived home in one piece. ’Twas a lofty task and a terrible undertaking, but she could do it. The goddess had chosen her for a reason, trusted her to be strong, well able to navigate peril and city streets crawling with enemy soldiers. Gritting her teeth, Cosmina stifled a huff. All right. So crawling might be overstating it a bit. She hadn’t, after all, encountered one yet, but . . .
She knew the blackguards were out there. Somewhere. Surveying the whole city. Lying in wait. Preparing to kill her along with her sisters in the Order of Orm.
Panic threatened again. Cosmina shoved it aside.
A clear mind, not one clouded by dread, was an absolute must. The Druinguari weren’t stupid. Master assassins with more skill in their little fingers than she possessed in her entire throwing arm, the group epitomized smart. The infernal beasts had spread out. One stood on the battlements along the east wall. Another atop the west and . . . well, she didn’t know about the south. Hadn’t seen one when she’d slipped through the postern gate to the north earlier. But that didn’t mean an enemy assassin wasn’t out there now. Concealed in shadow. Ready to sound the alarm the moment she came into view. Which meant she needed to find better cover before her luck ran out.
The realization made her stomach ache.
Ignoring the discomfort, balanced on the balls of her feet, Cosmina adjusted her shoulder strap instead. Her satchel obeyed with a persistent tug, settling against her hip as she contemplated her next move. A map of the city morphed in her mind’s eye. She searched for the best way through the maze of streets, back alleys, and main thoroughfares. Her target? The rose garden abutting the south parapet. ’Twas a bold maneuver, a strategy that would put her under the enemy’s nose . . . and the Druinguari keeping watch at that end of White Temple. But few other options existed. The wall at the rear of the garden—beyond the old oak—was the best alternative. She knew the terrain well and . . .