Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks
even help you after I return to the faceless women. But first you have to promise me something.”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“Leave his son, Aaron, to me.”
Gerand Crold sat in his chair, feeling particularly vulnerable even though the thick stone of the castle’s walls surrounded him. He went over that morning’s conversation repeatedly in his head.
“Thren would have a word with you,” one of the kitchen boys had told him, someone Gerand failed to recognize.
“And why would I agree to that?” Gerand had asked in return, not bothering to ask why such a child would know. The Spiders seemed to spin their webs everywhere when they needed to.
“It’s important. It’s about the Kensgold. Be in your room, and be alone, or people die.”
And then the child had vanished as Gerand stood frozen still in the hallway before the throne room. The Kensgold? Did Thren know that Gerand had been tipped off about his plans for the Kensgold by the Worm?
Gerand had gone through the day trying to remain calm, but it’d been a farce. The idea of someone sneaking into his bedroom should have been ludicrous. His quarters in the castle were small but luxurious and, more important, extremely safe. He was surrounded by guards and protected by sheer walls of stone and roving patrols of soldiers. Never before had he worried for his life when his door was locked and his window barred.
Yet for years he had listened to the wild tales of Thren Felhorn’s exploits. The man had killed an entire royal family, two if the rumors were true. He had stolen the family jewels from Connington’s very head without the man noticing. He had killed Ser Morak, the greatest swordsman from the nation of Ker (though whether fairly or not was under constant debate). To a man like that, what were a few walls or a door?
Gerand put down his glass and started pacing the room. He wished his wife were there, but he had sent her away, and not to their small estate. Deep in the southern district he owned a modest jewelry shop, and he had instructed her to hide there for the next two days. Now he wondered if that would be safe. Sure, they had some guards, enough to deter any regular thieves and cutpurses … but Thren?
“Damn it,” said Gerand, striking the top of his dresser. “He’s a man, not a ghost. Walls and doors mean the same to him as any other man.”
Strong, angry words, but they did little to calm him. Therefore he walked over to his bed and pulled his rapier off its wall-stand. Holding the cold hilt in his hand, he felt a little better. Perhaps he wasn’t as good as Ser Morak, but he was a fine bladesman in his own right. At least he might die fighting instead of gagging on poisoned food.
The hours crawled by, the night slowly deepening. Gerand read when he could calm himself enough to focus, his rapier across his legs as he turned the pages. Other times he looped the weapon through a few stances, trying to remember the last time he’d sparred. It had been a year or two, he decided, and that was a year or two too many. He’d have to find a partner, and a good one. Perhaps Antonil Copernus, the guard captain, would suffice…
A knock on his door sent Gerand spinning, his blade cutting air. When he realized the door was still closed, and no specter had come for him, he felt incredibly foolish. He slid his rapier into his belt and put his hand on the handle.
“Who is there?” he asked.
The door blasted inward, wrenching his hand. The solid oak slammed his forehead. As he fell he tried to draw his blade, but then his back smacked atop the small chest at the foot of his bed. The rapier clattered uselessly along the stone floor. He reached for it only to have a heavy boot slam atop his fingers.
“Get up,” said a voice. Rough hands grabbed the back of his clothes, yanking him to his feet and then flinging him into his chair. Clutching his wounded hand to his chest, Gerand got his first good look at his attackers. One was a woman with raven hair tied back. The other was most certainly Thren Felhorn. Gerand had never met the man before, but he’d both heard and read many descriptions.
The woman drew one of many throwing daggers from her belt and twirled it in her fingers while Thren shut the door to the crowded room. When Gerand’s eyes flitted over to the rapier, the woman threw her dagger, piercing the chair so close to his skin it cut the cloth of his robe. She shook her head at him but said nothing.
Thren gently
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