The Sharpest Blade

I’m not sure exactly where we are, but I remember the wall. It circles half the western portion of the city. Supposedly, sometime back before the Duin Bregga, it was topped by melted silver and contained all of Tholm, but five millennia of rain and erosion have nearly worn the silver away, and due to the fertile soil and its close proximity to the Imyth Sea, the city has long since overflowed the confines of the wall.

The rain increases as we climb a slope. I keep one hand on the wall in case I slip on the smooth cobblestones. It’s odd being in such a heavy downpour with no lightning or thunder, just the torrential rain and a wind strong enough to twist my heavy cloak around my legs. Only the outer part of the cloak is drenched. The inside is lined with the soft, waterproof skin of a sikki, a sea animal that lives in the Realm’s oceans. I wrap my hands into the wet folds of the material and try to keep it from tangling around my legs.

Trev doesn’t seem to have any problems with the weather. He’s sure-footed on the slippery stones. He has an advantage, though: his boots get far better traction than my dress shoes. The heels are the shortest I could—

Trev stops so suddenly, only a quick grab at the wall keeps me from falling on my ass. I grip the hilt of my sword, start to pull it out as I look for the threat, but then I see him—Aren—crouched down behind the wall.

He looks from Trev to me. It’s dark, and with my hood up and the continued downpour, he can probably only see the flash of edarratae across my skin, not my actual face. He moves forward, then whips off my hood. His silver eyes meet mine for one heartbeat—for two—then he turns back to Trev.

“Where’s Naito?”

“Derch,” Trev answers. “It will take him six hours to reach the nearest gate.”

Aren’s hand is still fisted in my hood. It brushes across the nape of my neck when he faces me again. The soft, brief contact is all that’s needed for my edarratae to come alive. He feels the lightning’s heat the same as I do, and he immediately drops his hand.

I clench my teeth together so hard my jaw aches. It’s ironic, this reversal of roles. Two months ago, I was the one withdrawing from his touch and struggling with my attraction to him. Now, just because of a life-bond I had no control over forming, he doesn’t want me anymore? I don’t buy it. His behavior makes no sense, and it’s pissing me off.

The life-bond and our relationship isn’t something I can discuss in front of Trev, though, so I just meet Aren’s gaze, making sure my expression is grim and determined. I’m here. He has to accept that.

He laughs. It’s the last reaction I expected from him, and my anger dissipates a little.

“Okay,” he says, a sideways grin stretching across his lips. “But there are conditions.”

“Conditions?”

He nods, taking a step closer. I have to crane my neck to look up at him, and even in the pouring rain, I can smell him, all woodsy cedar with a mouthwatering hint of spice. I’m aching for the condition to be a kiss, but he only grips the front edges of my cloak.

“If I call it off,” he says, his smile fading, “we walk away, no questions asked. If I tell you to run, you run.” He takes my hand in his, then wraps it around the hilt of my sword. “If I tell you to kill, you don’t hesitate.”

It’s that last condition that keeps me from responding immediately. The Realm is a violent world, and killing is a common thing. It’s not common for a human like me, though, and in the last two months, I’ve killed more fae than I have in the last ten years. Even though every one of those lives was taken to defend myself or my friends, I wish I hadn’t had to end them. I don’t want to end any more. It’s one of the reasons why living a normal life is so appealing. If I choose to remain involved with the fae, I’m accepting the fact that I may have to kill again.

I nod once, hoping that this shadow-reading will be simple.

Aren just shakes his head like he can’t believe my response. Then he tucks a lock of my rain-drenched hair behind my ear, letting his fingers graze my cheek when he takes his hand away. It’s a decidedly tender gesture, and I don’t know what to make of it. The life-bond can’t be the reason he’s keeping his distance from me. I’ve come up with a few other theories—someone from his past is threatening to reveal some terrible secret about him, a high noble is blackmailing him into some shady dealings—but Aren’s not one to let himself be manipulated. Something else is tearing him away from me.

I reach for his hand. “Aren—”

“Nimael is here,” he says.

Nimael. The fae who slipped away from Naito and could be the false-blood’s second-in-command.

“Is there any sign of Caelar or the remnants?” I ask, focusing on what we’re here to do.

“No,” Aren says. “But, technically, there’s no sign of Nimael either. He’s an illusionist. A powerful one if my information is good. Making himself and half a dozen other fae invisible is simple for him, even while fighting.”

Damn, that’s impressive. Illusion is a common magic, but most fae who are adept at it can only keep themselves unseen while they’re fighting. Those who are stronger might be able to hide an additional fae or two, but concealing half a dozen fae who are all moving and fighting and lunging in different directions takes some serious magical skills.

Which makes our job anything but simple. I’ll have to assume every fae with him is invisible.

“How do we know he’s here then?” I ask.

“He’s recruiting.”

At my frown, Aren gives me his signature half smile then motions me to follow him over the low wall. I slide over the wind-worn stone and grimace when my feet squish into the ground. There are no cobblestones on this side of the wall. Or, if there are, they’re underneath an inch-thick layer of mud. The city is built on a hillside, and we’re standing in a shallow canal that cuts between tall, stone buildings.

Trev sinks into the muck beside me. Without a word, we both follow Aren. Since the fae are silent, I keep quiet, too, suppressing a number of curses because it’s hard as hell to keep my shoes on my feet. The mud keeps suctioning them off. It’s slowing me down more than usual, so when Trev glares over his shoulder at me for the third time, I throw off the impractical dress shoes, hoping there’s nothing in this sludge that will slice open my feet.

When I catch up with Aren and Trev again, I realize we’re not alone in this canal. We’re following a fae. I only see the back of his shaggy head, so I can’t recognize him, but he’s not dressed in any kind of armor. And, if I’m not mistaken, he looks young, too young to be one of Lena’s swordsmen.

“He’s imithi,” Aren says, slowing his pace until I’m at his side.

Imithi? Curious, I squint through the darkness as the fae stops and faces us. Aren used to be one of them. They’re orphans, fae who have no parents, no homes, and no roots linking them to anywhere in the Realm. They fissure from city to city, stealing, looting, and generally creating havoc wherever they go.

When we reach the imithi, the boy cocks his head at me, his silver-blue eyes openly taking me in from rain-drenched head to sludge-covered feet, which feel like blocks of ice now. I think he’s young, but I’ve always had trouble guessing how old fae are. They age slower than humans do, except in their early years. From birth until the teens, we mature almost at the same rate. It’s a good thing, too, because it would be freaking bizarre to talk to a twenty-year-old man who looks like a five-year-old boy. Still, it’s difficult to figure out those later teenage years. The boy looks like he could be a high-school freshman, but he could just as well be the age of a college graduate.