Blood of the Underworld Read online

  The cake caught in her throat, and it took all of her control to keep her from launching into an unseemly coughing fit. Her mother? Why did he ask of her mother?

  “She died when I was young,” she said once she had swallowed. “The servants would not tell me the reason, and my father would only say that she left. I presume you think you know the truth of the matter?”

  Stephen stood, as if unable to sit any longer.

  “That I would, if you’d...”

  She waved a hand dismissively, interrupting him.

  “I am no fool, Stephen, and rumors are no stranger to me. I know what happened, if that is all you’d tell me. My mother was unfaithful to my father, and he...” She shook her head. “I love my father, but he was right to hide it from me. I’m not sure I’d have forgiven him, certainly not back then. She was given to Leon’s...your father’s gentle touchers. I can only pray they were merciful.”

  She felt Zusa’s palm cup against her face, and she closed her eyes and leaned against it, accepting the comfort. When Alyssa looked again, Stephen was approaching the other door to the room.

  “Well then,” he said, unable to hold back a grin. “Everything you have said is true. But you are still wrong.”

  He opened the door, then stepped back.

  “Alyssa,” he said, “may I present to you Melody Gemcroft.”

  Alyssa’s heart stopped. Standing in the hall, as if afraid to enter through the doorway, was a woman from a dream. Her eyes had sunken further, and many new wrinkles stretched across her lips and face, but the hair was the same, the ears, the nose, all the same as the woman who had sat on Alyssa’s bed, candle in hand, and read story after story until sleep had taken her away. A thousand memories assaulted her, many long forgotten. Of brushing each other’s hair. Of strict discipline and teaching of etiquette. The way she’d flicked her nose with a finger whenever she grabbed the wrong utensil at dinner. The smell of crushed flowers every time they’d embraced.

  “Mother,” Alyssa whispered.

  Tears swelled in Melody’s eyes, but they did not fall. She took a few tentative steps inside, and then Alyssa was on her feet. Their hug was careful, slow, as if each were afraid of the other. When they separated, Alyssa looked deeply into that tired, pale face and was convinced beyond a doubt. She didn’t know what to feel. Didn’t know what it meant.

  “How?” she asked.

  “Not now,” Melody said. “But...it is good to see you, Alyssa. You’ve grown to be so beautiful, just like I knew you would.”

  “She still needs her rest,” Stephen said, gently taking Melody’s hand. “I’ll explain what I can. Servant?”

  He snapped his fingers, and when the stiff-necked servant arrived, he directed the man to take Melody back to her room. Feeling as if the world were spinning, Alyssa watched her long-dead mother be led away. Her stomach cramping, she went back to her chair, where Zusa remained leaning against the top, a guarded expression on her face.

  “Is it true?” Zusa whispered as she sat.

  “I think so.” Alyssa felt like she walked in a dream, one where the dead had come back to life. Would Maynard be revealed next, having lived in hiding after taking an arrow to the chest? She looked to Stephen, who appeared ready to burst with pride.

  “How?” she asked again.

  “Your father did give Melody over to my father’s gentle touchers,” Stephen said, sipping from his drink. “He even paid for it. But they didn’t kill her. I believe my father fancied her beauty, from what I have learned. I will spare you all I know, but her detention was...unkind, as you can imagine. When Leon was killed, everything here was chaos. It was several years before the caretakers would even acknowledge my presence, let alone my true birthright. None of us knew who Melody was, for she would say nothing, and we had no record of her existence. Even the gentle touchers didn’t know for certain.”

  He took another drink. Alyssa felt chills, imagining years crawling by trapped in Leon’s dungeon. Stephen was right; she could imagine the ‘unkind’ tortures he’d have subjected her to. How long might it have been? Struggling to remember, she thought back to when she’d first heard of her mother’s disappearance, a year before the Bloody Kensgold. That put it at near ten years. Ten years in darkness. No wonder her eyes had sunken in, and her thin frame had been unable to fill the simple violet dress she wore.

  “I’m not surprised Leon kept it a secret,” Alyssa said, trying to hold down her anger. “My father would have murdered him if he’d found out.”

  Stephen’s cheek twitched, but his smile remained.

  “Maybe so,” he said. “But when I finally accepted power, I cleared out all the prisoners, either through release or execution, depending on the measure of their crimes and the length of their stay. But what crime had this mysterious woman committed? She told the truth, of course, and as you can imagine, we did not believe her. Melody Gemcroft was dead. We all knew that. We all knew, but she persisted...”

  He suddenly lurched to his feet, and before Alyssa knew what was going on, the young man knelt before her and took her hand in his.

  “Please forgive me, Alyssa,” he said, staring at the floor. “For a year she stayed, and I disbelieved. But she did not relent, and told us stories, memories, all to prove she was who she claimed to be. I should have known sooner; I should have believed her. Will you forgive me for adding torment to an already tormented woman?”

  “I...yes,” Alyssa said, carefully freeing her hand. Something about his touch made her uneasy. “How could you have known? I barely believe it myself.”

  This seemed to be enough, and with a jarring mood swing, Stephen was once more the charming boy.

  “The finest physicians and priests in all of Dezrel have attended her,” he said, grabbing a cake smothered with blueberries and wolfing it down. “Better food and bed have helped nurse her to health, and I am glad she took meeting you so well. Even walking at times puts her out of breath.”

  “I must thank you,” Alyssa said, standing. “For everything.”

  “It is all I can do to make up for the sins of my father,” Stephen said. “That, and to earn your forgiveness. I want us to be friends, Alyssa. May your next visit be far sooner than the last. As for Melody, we’ll have her few things packed up and ready in just a few moments.”

  It was only then it hit Alyssa that it wasn’t all a dream. Her mother was alive, and of course it was expected that she would go with her, to her proper home. Alyssa swallowed, and she felt her world crumbling. She hated it, how she hated it, but her immediate thought was nothing but an angry denial.

  I am still ruler of the Gemcroft family!

  She dug her fingernails into her arm as punishment. Such a selfish, childish thought was unbecoming of her. She was better than that, more mature.

  “All the best,” she said to Stephen, forcing a pleasant mask across her face. “It will be such a pleasure to bring my mother home.”

  To meet her grandchild. To see how the rooms had changed. To hear of her husband’s death, and the thief war that had nearly decimated them. To reenter a family of whom she was the eldest, and the lawful ruler.

  “All the best,” Stephen smiled.

  Alyssa grabbed Zusa’s hand, squeezed it tight.

  3

  Thren Felhorn crouched in the alley, watching the people pass. He wore the gray cloak of the Spider Guild, of which he was the undisputed ruler. Merchants, thieves, and lords quivered just hearing his name. At least, they once did. But now someone had dared disrespect him, and even flaunted it against him.

  “Damn Serpents,” Thren said. “Do they think I would let them go unpunished?”

  Beside him, his second in command—a rugged thief named Martin—put a pinch of crimleaf between his teeth and bit down.

  “They’ve only claimed the first kill, and marked it as such,” Martin said, turning to spit. “That second one don’t seem like them. Tongue of gold? What the fuck does that mean? Bert was hardly known for his pretty words.”


  Thren felt his insides harden. They’d found Bert the previous night, an arrow embedded in his throat. His mouth had been open, but no golden tongue there. The eyes of silver, though, they had seen, and the memory still filled him with rage. They’d taken the coins and fled just before the city guard arrived. Some had thought it a hit by the Watcher, but Thren dismissed that immediately. It wasn’t the Watcher’s style. His two men accosted outside one of their taverns—now that was the Watcher’s style. No, the coins and odd rhyme left in mockery had to be the Serpent Guild. Their new leader, Wilson Ket, was known for his pathetic attempts at resembling nobility instead of the street rat he was.

  “Now,” Thren said, and the two rushed out.

  They’d been watching another tavern, a place where Thren had been told Wilson liked to drink in the early mornings. The crowds had thinned, and no Serpents were in sight. At his command, he and Martin crossed the street, their hands on their hilts. But when he reached the door, he stopped and swore.

  “Did someone warn him?” Martin asked.

  Thren shrugged. He didn’t know. Enough already didn’t make sense, but adding this?

  The door was broken inward. They stepped inside, their blades drawn. Not sure what to expect, Thren still did not find it within that tavern. Instead, several Serpents lay on the floor, their arms bound behind their backs. Over a dozen armed soldiers were about, some tying ropes, others questioning the Serpents, while a few just stood around looking bored. That boredom vanished the moment they laid eyes on the two of them, barging in with naked blades.

  “Oh, shit,” Martin muttered.

  An appropriate understatement.

  “Halt!” several cried, but Thren was already on his way out. In the street, he turned north and ran, jamming his swords into their sheaths. Martin followed, still clutching his dagger.

  “They’re following!” Martin yelled, and Thren glanced back to confirm. Only four, but they wore fine sets of chainmail that would turn their weapons with ease. He almost engaged them, figuring to end the fight quickly, but then he saw another squad of soldiers turn the corner just ahead. They wore the same insignia as the others: yellow wings overtop a gold sun. Thren had never seen it before in his life.

  “Follow me,” he told Martin, cutting hard to his right. They ducked into an alley, then dove through a window upon reaching a dead end. Thren landed hard atop a table, then rolled to avoid Martin’s fall. Banging one of his knees on the way to the floor, Thren clenched his teeth and muttered a litany of curses at whoever had placed the table there. A woman stood screaming, and he slashed out her throat, not giving a thought to her corpse as they ran up the stairs. On the rooftops they were truly at home, and they leapt across with practiced ease. Once the guards were far behind, Thren stopped.

  “Damn it,” he muttered, as up ahead Martin slowed, realizing his guild master was not keeping pace. A cramp stung Thren’s side, and he tried to push it into a corner of his mind so it wouldn’t bother him. It would have been easier if he weren’t so desperate for air. Old, he thought. Was this what it meant to get old? Despite his training, despite his legendary skill, he’d still just be a weary man gasping for air while the young ran on?

  “You feeling fine, Thren?” Martin asked.

  “Don’t ask stupid questions,” Thren snapped. “What just happened there?”

  Martin shrugged.

  “Looks like mercenaries going out hunting for thieves. We’ve seen it before.”

  Thren shook his head.

  “Yes, but not since the Watcher’s agreement. Have they learned nothing? We nearly burned this city down before. Do they think we cannot do it again?”

  Martin walked over to the edge of the roof, knelt down on one knee, and peered down.

  “Thren,” he said. “You might want to look at this.”

  Thren joined him at the side, and if his insides were already hard, they now turned to iron. Hundreds of soldiers wearing the sun and wing insignia patrolled the streets. His mind flashed back to the bloody conflict four years prior, but it didn’t match up. Back then, Alyssa had unleashed a horde of mercenaries upon the city, smashing in homes, cutting down anyone suspected of guilt, and filling the city with fear. This, though...

  “They’re orderly,” he said, with a hint of wonder. “Calm.”

  “Not just that,” Martin said, pointing. “They’re only talking to most. What do you think they’re doing?”

  Thren could spot a thief without even trying, and he saw at least seven weaving through the heavy crowd of the main street. None dared act. When one neared the soldiers, Thren thought they might spot the cloak and attack, but did not.

  “They’re arresting thieves, but not at random,” Thren said. “Who ordered this? Whose soldiers are these?”

  Martin paced the roof until he was beside an alley jutting off from the main route. Waving Thren over, he pointed to a trio of soldiers marching below them.

  “Think they’ll know?” he asked, grinning.

  Thren drew his shortswords.

  “Answers,” he said. “One way or another.”

  When the soldiers were directly beneath, the two leapt to the ground, like hawks descending upon their prey. Their chainmail was finely woven, but Thren managed to jam a blade between his victim’s coif and collar, piercing flesh. It wasn’t deep as planned, for the man immediately spun to one side and fell to a knee. Thren twisted it free, then went to cut across the throat with his other sword, but was not fast enough. The second soldier blocked the attack, standing protectively before his fallen comrade.

  Thren gave him no reprieve, weaving a quick series of strikes to test his foe’s skill. Much to his surprise, and annoyance, the soldier blocked them all. Curses filled Thren’s mind. From the corner of his eye, he saw Martin battling the third soldier. Unlike Thren, he’d not managed a solid blow during his fall, his dagger failing to penetrate the chainmail. The two fought close, Martin trying to negate the soldier’s advantage of longer reach.

  “Who pays you?” Thren asked, feinting one hand then thrusting with the other. He expected no answer, only hoped to distract his foe. It didn’t work. The thrust parried harmlessly away, and then the soldier stepped in, expertly weaving his weapon in a beautiful counter. Thren flung himself to the side, bit his tongue as he felt steel slash across his arm. Blood stained his gray shirt and cloak. His fury growing, the rush of battle flooding through him, he lunged at his opponent with both blades. When the soldier blocked, Thren pressed on, hacking and slashing with such ferocity his opponent fell back in retreat. The wounded soldier no longer protected, Thren stopped for just a moment to stab him in the back of the neck, then kick his corpse aside.

  “What fool brought you to your deaths?” Thren asked as he swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. He was losing blood fast, he knew. Had to get it attended. The soldier started to respond, but Thren spun, his attention no longer on him. Martin had fought the other soldier to a standstill, the two so focused that neither sensed his sudden appearance. Thren’s shortsword pierced through the small of the soldier’s back. A twist, a yank, and the man dropped. Martin nodded in thanks, and then the two turned on the last. Thren thought he’d run, but he did not, only stood his ground.

  “Left,” Thren said softly. When they both attacked, Martin did as told, veering to the left and cutting in with his dagger. The soldier shifted to the side, unafraid of it piercing his armor, but the motion kept him from falling into a retreat. That was all Thren needed. A trio of slashes batted the sword out of position, and then his own blades sliced in, jamming through the soldier’s throat. The man gurgled, his eyes widened, and then he dropped. Thren pulled his sword free, shook blood off of it.

  “Fuck!” Thren yelled, kicking the corpse. His arm stung, and when his battle lust faded, he knew it would hurt even more. Worse, they’d failed in their goal.

  “Hard to interrogate a man who has no throat,” Martin said, jamming his dagger into his belt.

  Thren sheathed his
swords, then checked the wound on his arm. Not too deep. It would leave a scar, just one more among hundreds. Glancing out the alley, he saw people passing, and several spotted the carnage. They wisely kept their mouths shut, but it would only be moments before someone wasn’t so smart.

  “Back home,” Thren said. “We know too little. It isn’t safe.”

  They took to the roofs once more and ran, Thren gritting his teeth against the pain. The chaos of the main streets vanished behind them until they reached the Thirsty Mule. Martin went first to ensure none of the mysterious soldiers were about. The way clear, he beckoned Thren in, and together they entered the cellar of their headquarters, disguised as a simple inn.

  The place was abuzz with rumors and questions. Amid the pain, Thren estimated at least twenty of his guild milling about, swapping stories and making guesses. They’d fled home when the soldiers flooded the streets, but how many had not made it? At Thren’s entrance, the conversation quieted, and several tilted their heads with respect. No doubt they wished to ask him questions, but seeing his wound, they wisely let him be.

  “Where’s Murphy?” Thren asked as he took a seat at the bar, banging his fist on the wood in demand of a drink. One of the smaller thieves, Peb, rushed over, grabbing glasses.

  “I’ll get him,” Martin said.

  “What’ll it be?” asked Peb. He was quick, and had big ears. They’d called him Mouse for a while, then switched to Pebble after Thren put a stop to it. No thief of his was a mouse. They were Spiders, lurkers, killers—even the smallest carrying dangerous venom.

  “Hardest we have,” Thren said. By the time Peb gave him his glass, Murphy had arrived, a small box in hand.

  “How bad is it?” Murphy asked.

  “Bad enough.”

  He downed the glass, then carefully removed his shirt so the stocky man could see. Of them all, Murphy was the only one with a modicum of training in the skills of the apothecary. A gap-toothed man with graying hair, Murphy loved to say he first learned to sew up cows, not people, but the two were often the same. Deep down, Thren thought Murphy had learned how to stitch and amputate because he loved causing pain while still getting praised for it. Had he been born of higher blood, he’d have been one of Connington’s gentle touchers for sure.