The Unseen, page 3
Lydia looked to her mother for help, finding Riona’s face had paled to match her own. “Our daughter’s not ready for—”
“Actually,” Tallehan interrupted, “I’ve recently been considering just that.”
Lydia fiddled with her hair, lacking the words to voice her concerns. Her father had always derided parents who sent their children off before age thirteen, and she was still a few weeks from turning ten. His mind changed when I did.
The realization had consequences beyond the predictable heartache. For the first time in weeks, she heard the whispers. They were too soft and slurred to understand, but they still sent a shiver through her.
She brought her sleeve to her nose, desperate to silence them.
Breathe in…two…three…
“We appreciate the offer, but no,” Riona said. “There’s still much to discuss.”
“The time for discussion has passed, Riona,” Tallehan replied.
The scent of lavender did nothing to dispel the whispers, nor did it help to dull the lilac haze now playing in Lydia’s periphery. The fog seeped slowly through the room, growing denser as the whispers rose. She knew no one else could see it. They never did.
Breathe out…two…three…
“I understand it is short notice,” Lady Yana said, “but this offer will not last forever. If you agree tonight, it will give you a few days to pre—"
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Lydia shouted, leaping to her feet through no choice of her own. “And you can stop talking about me like I’m not even here!”
Her anger spread to everything in reach. Gravy spattered, porcelain cracked, candlelight caught to the crimson runner. She could see her father ranting and raving, but the whispers drowned his demands, not that she’d have heeded them. Her skin had turned to ice and her vision to violet flame.
All the lavender in the world could not have calmed her.
“Some shelters offer solace as darkness offers sleep,
But those places make promises they don’t intend to keep.”
Chapter 3
Sanctuaries
ELWYN
After a week in Amblewick, Elwyn had settled into a daily routine—less dangerous than her former one, but no less arduous. She’d traded her combat training for common chores, her treacherous associates for entitled patrons, and her perilous missions for the most mundane of errands. Oddly enough, she found she actually enjoyed the errands, especially when they brought her to the Tamond family butchery.
“Can you take care of that cobweb in the corner?” Elwyn asked Luatha, scanning the inn one final time before heading out. “You must have overlooked it earlier.”
Her friend obliged. Reluctantly.
“My kindred make most mortals cower, but you are such a bore,
You would use my ancient power to assist with tiresome chores.”
“Precisely.” Elwyn locked the door behind them and hung Mr. Elliott’s, I’ll be back when I feel like it, sign from the knob. “And when we return, you can use your ancient power to help prepare dinner.”
Luatha grumbled indiscernibly, crossing spindly arms. Elwyn fought a laugh. When she was younger, she’d been terrified of angering Luatha, having read that the Unseen were shadowy tricksters with malevolent intentions. In the decade since, she’d come to believe the rumors were highly exaggerated. Luatha was shadowy, and she was most certainly a trickster. But malevolent?
“I’d wager we could wreck the inn and leave a ruin behind,
And that man would return so drunk he wouldn’t even mind.”
Elwyn shook her head. Maybe a little malevolent.
Over the past week, the town had become far less quiet and uneventful as the townsfolk buzzed with excitement over the looming Midsummer Festival. Most of the villagers had wreathed their homes in floral garlands, strung paper lanterns from their eaves, and hung tiny satchels of candied fruit in the trees, all to honor and appease the Unseen. Luatha paid little mind to the flowers and lanterns, though she made quick work of a few satchels.
While Elwyn had come to resent the rigid religion enforced by the Pondrellen Church, having long been subjected to the worst of its hypocrisy, she found the Rhysien folk-faith quite charming. Technically, the Pondrellens and Rhysiens worshipped the same Creator, but the Pondrellens had long ago dismissed tales of otherworldly watchers as regressive superstition. The Rhysiens no longer put much faith in the old stories either, but they at least kept up a pretense. Luatha, for her part, didn’t seem to care about intentions, so long as the results were caramelized, glazed, or rolled in sugar.
As the scenery transformed, so did the faces. Merchants from the mainland had already begun to arrive, hoping to set their carts up near the town square before the rush. While it was unlikely that a Greyscale agent had slipped in among them, Elwyn pulled her hood up and made herself small. One could never be too cautious.
Much like Mr. Elliot’s Inn, Tamond’s butchery had managed to avoid the festival fervor. The garlands and streamers that adorned the surrounding buildings made its weathered siding and patchwork roofing look that much sadder. Flies buzzed around the string of sausage links draped around door in lieu of a sign. Were it a true sign, it would have probably read something like, “Eat at your own risk.”
The shop’s interior looked just as unappealing as the outside, with one notable exception. Davin Tamond was a few years Elwyn’s senior, and the local girls fawned openly over his broad shoulders and shamrock eyes. Though Elwyn hardly noticed those features, he seemed amiable enough. He was also the first boy she’d ever met who would not literally stab her in the back, given a chance, and that held a certain appeal.
She lowered her hood as the door clicked shut behind her, checking to make certain her scar was covered before greeting the butcher boy with a simple, “Good day, Davin.”
He jumped, scattering the coins he’d been counting across the counter. “Oh! I din’t hear you enter, um…” He scratched his head, mussing short, copper locks. “Sorry. Have we met?”
Elwyn deflated. This was the fourth time she had introduced herself in as many days. “It’s El, remember? From the inn.”
He blinked his glassy eyes.
“Never mind.” Elwyn sighed, pulling a few copper pias from her pocket. “I’d like to purchase whatever’s cheapest.”
Apparently, that one took. Davin added Elwyn’s coins to those he’d been counting and scooped them into his apron pocket before vanishing into the back room.
Luatha quirked her head, alighting on Elwyn’s shoulder.
“It seems a curse that mortal-kind puts so much stock in sight.
The guilty hide in shadows while the shadows long for light.”
“It’s more my forgettability than his forgetfulness,” Elwyn muttered, shrugging it off. “Besides, it’s not like we’ll be staying here much longer. No need to form attachments.”
Davin returned seconds later, handing her a bloody canvas sack that he claimed was filled with chicken scraps. “Have a nice day…um…”
“El!” she snapped. How hard is it to remember one syllable?
She was contemplating tying the dolt’s bootstrings together when she noticed Luatha doing that very thing. She smiled, making a mental note to pilfer a treat for her friend before returning to the inn, and turned to leave. Before she could open the door, it swung open, and in came the Pondrellen couple from the inn—Silva and Rayen, as Elwyn had come to learn.
“Fancy seeing you here, El!” Silva said, only noticing Elwyn after bumping into her.
“And to think, I’d wanted to pass this shop by!”
Elwyn stifled a scowl. The noblewoman was easily the most loquacious person she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting, and, for lack of more fashionable options, she’d begun to think of Elwyn as suitable company. Elwyn disagreed.
“Rayen and I finally decided to explore the town,” Silva explained, releasing Elwyn’s arm in favor of her husband’s. “Would you care to join us for what remains? I’ve been meaning to visit the quaint little tailor shop over by the local sanctuary. Perhaps you can find something there that isn’t so…drab.”
Even if sanctuaries didn’t chill Elwyn to the marrow, she’d have declined the offer. She had little interest in clothing, least of all the kinds of clothing that Silva wore. Surely, there was a specific subset of madness associated with marching around rural villages in ball gowns, silk gloves, and capelets.
No one else seemed to question Silva’s wardrobe, least of all Davin Tamond. Despite Rayen’s presence, the butcher boy’s eyes widened on the pretty Pondrellen socialite, and his jaw went predictably lax.
“C-can I help you with anything, miss?” he asked, scrambling forward. His knotted laces caused him to stumble, but he managed to catch himself on the counter. Everyone present burst into laughter, save for Elwyn, who was a bit too bitter to appreciate the fumble. She instead slipped her hand into Davin’s apron pocket, stealing her coins back, with interest, before slinking out into the street.
Unfortunately, Silva followed after her.
“You fancy him, don’t you?” The noblewoman whispered, falling into step beside Elwyn.
“You’ve got a vivid imagination.”
“I believe you,” Silva said in a tone that told Elwyn she didn’t. “At any rate, it is refreshing to see you out and about. I was beginning to think you were some kind of phantom, cursed to haunt that dingy old inn for eternity.”
“Careful,” Elwyn said. “That kind of superstition might get you confused with a native Rhysien.”
“We intend to make a home here.” Silva shrugged. “Might as well adopt the culture. Speaking of, have you tried much Rhysien cuisine? Rayen and I intend to stop for lunch soon. Surely, you’ll partake?”
“Busy.” Elwyn held up the bag of (probably) chicken as evidence, then melted into the passing crowd before Silva could argue further.
Elwyn had expected to return to an empty inn, given she’d locked the place down, which is why she was startled to find a stranger sitting at the bar, a full pint of amber in hand. The moment she saw him, she dropped the bloody bag she’d been holding and reached reflexively for Gelah. Somehow, she stopped herself from drawing the dagger. There was no reason to reveal it quite yet.
“Can I help you?” she asked, kicking the door shut behind her.
He tipped his wide-brimmed, crimson hat—a gesture that put Elwyn on edge, despite the man’s innocuous appearance. His polished black shoes dangled feet above the floorboards, and he was comically wide for his height. The buttons and tails of his mottled ruby suit might have been fashionable, in a different place at a different time.
“Can I help you?” Elwyn repeated, fingers twitching above her dagger’s hilt.
“Actually, I think you can,” he replied, a twinkle in his summer green eyes, “Slate.”
A blink, and Gelah’s curve was pressed to his throat.
“Should’ve chosen my words with more caution.” He raised an open palm, slowly extending it. “Name’s Blithely. Blithely Fox.”
Elwyn narrowed her eyes. “No. It isn’t.”
The man took a gulp of ale, showing a sudden, alarming disinterest in the dagger. “It’s a great name, though, ain’t it? Came up with it m’self.”
Her grip on the dagger tightened, but Luatha advised caution.
“Mince words before you mince his flesh. Impatience just won’t do.
If this odd stranger dies too soon, his secrets will die too.”
Elwyn did not want to kill anyone, but she would do what she needed to survive. It would not have been the first time. “Are you working with the Greyscale?” she asked.
Blithely shook his head—carefully, so as not to slit his own throat—and sighed as though he expected better. His breath smelled of carrion.
“I’m a friend,” he said. “That is, if you’re willing to gamble.”
Elwyn wasn’t. She put pressure on the blade, not enough to draw blood, but enough to make a point.
“You got me all wrong, lass!” Blithely chuckled, setting his drink aside. “You think you know stuff that you don’t, and you know a great deal you haven’t learned yet.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not here to hurt you.” His smile spread like molasses. “I’m here to hire you.”
BRANNON
Saint Aldrich’s Sanctuary was a mountainous mass of mortar, wrought iron, and stained glass that twisted skyward in a forest of arches and steeples. Gargoyles perched along the upper reaches, membranous wings outstretched, having been sculpted ages back as superstitious means of warding off devils. In Brannon’s estimation, they were shit at their job. They’d done nothing to keep him away.
Though he was far from religious, he’d always admired the sanctuary itself. The grim artistry of the exterior served to remind rebel souls of the fate that awaited them in the afterlife, should they disregard the wise words of Father Beaus. Fear was easily the most potent method for manipulating the masses. The garish gallery of murals and stained glass that wound throughout the interior served as a second manipulation, the promise of respite for the faithful, once they’d freed their final, pitiful breath. Should a sound beating fail to tame an unruly child, the promise of a reward would surely suffice.
Brannon slipped through chambers both bleak and beautiful until he reached the inner sanctum, where he slipped into the back-most pew. No one seemed to notice his arrival. Having traded his dark leather for the drab linens of the working class, he was just another derelict wandering in late from a hard morning’s work.
Father Beaus stood serenely in the sanctum alcove, clad in the stark white robes and gilded hood of his calling. Candlelight twinkled across precious stones as he raised his gilded shepherd’s crook to commence the closing prayer. The parishioners bowed their heads, but Brannon kept alert, watching as a mousy boy toted a collection box from pew to pew. To the unwitting, he was just another of Saint Aldrich’s many orphans. Brannon knew him as Ghost, the Greyscale’s youngest agent.
The Father’s voice cut across the room like a dagger through flesh.
“May His divine hand raise the worthy and smite the wicked,
Lest an unpruned vine bear withered fruit.
May His divine eyes turn away from our sin and linger on our righteousness.
Lest we reap the full of what we’ve sown.
May His divine ears hear our prayers and ignore our curses.
Lest the evil we wish others revisit us tenfold.
May His divine heart make room for each of us.
That we may hope beyond the moment.”
The parishioners foolishly believed each word, but Brannon was not alone in his cynicism. The Father himself, though regarded far and wide as an exemplary cleric of the Holy Pondrellen Church, preferred to practice more ancient rites in private. And not the benign ones, either. Brannon had no idea how Father Beaus had first been drawn to the darker aspects of the Rhysien folk-faith, but he had to admit, curses and hexes sounded a lot more interesting than prayers and supplications, if no more effective.
The prayer ended right as the collection box reached Brannon, already brimming with copper pias. He dropped the Widow Stanley’s silver chain into the cache, signaling to the father that he had finished his job.
Part of it, anyway.
The assassination had been simple as ever, but he’d failed to catch even a whiff of Slate’s whereabouts. He could only hope his feats overshadowed his flaws. Dreading the alternative, he glanced back at the two hulking figures beside the sanctum entrance, men the congregation knew as Divines Carmine and Alder. To Brannon, they were Granite and Coal. The Greyscale enforcers were not lithe enough to be thieves, deft enough to be assassins, or subtle enough to be spies, but they were more than cruel enough to take on the syndicate’s more brutish business, such as collecting overdue payments, interrogating unwilling informants, and correcting undisciplined agents.
When Granite returned the stare with a wink, Brannon shuddered, knowing he now counted among the undisciplined. He sunk into the pew, fixing his eyes forward, and spent the remainder of the service scripting excuses that would not help him any.
Granite and Coal flanked Brannon as he waited outside Father Beaus’ study. They’d dropped their pious facades the moment they stepped into the catacombs beneath the sanctuary, and they’d since been doing their best to forecast the future. For the last five minutes, Granite had been droning on about his latest innovation, which involved live mealworms and dissonant music. His counterpart took a more subtle approach, standing silently, save for the occasional crack of his knuckles.
There was little Brannon hated more than feeling helpless, which is what he was. While he could easily have bested both burly associates in a fair fight, the consequences of winning would have proven far worse than losing. The Father did not look kindly upon any who challenged his order.
Soon enough, the door swung open, and a man in a dapper suit stepped into the hall. He paused to tip his top hat at the agents, avoiding eye-contact.
“Thank you, again, for your generous donation,” Father Beaus called after him, “Governor Copland.”
The man grinned over his shoulder. “When I claim my new station, I will remember who put me there.”
“I was only performing my civic duty.” Beaus chuckled softly. “Can you imagine a woman running a district as important as Ebensburg, and a widow no less?”
So, that’s my most recent sponsor. A hollow opened in Brannon’s gut as he watched the man stroll away, a half-hearted spring in his step. Agents weren’t usually permitted to glimpse their patrons. Things ran smoother that way. Brannon hoped the exception had been made in light of his loyalty, but he doubted it.
