prologue: a visitor
Devon Greenwood sat on the wide sill of the open window, arms around her
knees, contemplating the streets below and watching the colour drain from
the day. Travellers weaved towards inns, merchants closed up shop, and
sleepy horses tossed in their stalls. From her private room on the second
floor of the Rogue Guild’s headquarters, her usual sense of isolation was
accentuated by the sultry summer twilight that surrounded her. To any weary
traveller, the Guildhall was merely a dilapidated wood-plank inn on the
outskirts of Damali. Anyone who treasured their purses or their lives was
better off avoiding this shady quarter of Achryn’s capital. But for Devon,
it was home.
A thin wail from a house below pricked the heavy air. Another child was born, Devon thought. Suddenly the night seemed busier, livelier. Her instincts told her that she should be down there assisting the midwife. Never mind that Devon was a Rogue; first and foremost she was a healer, a prolonger of life. Life itself is a fight against death, her godfather Atticus had always said. It was he who had adopted her after her parents’ death, honed her nature magic, and taught her nearly everything about plants. These thieves, assassins, and spies who were her patients now did not fear death: they laughed in death’s face. But for Devon, whose parents had burned in a house fire and whose godfather had been later slain by tax-hungry lords, there was nothing worse. Devon had made it her daily mantra: life itself is a fight against death.
Devon heard a faint rustling of leaves and opened her eyes. She hadn’t realized that she had closed them in reminiscence and had fallen asleep. The sun had dipped below the horizon. She heard a louder rustle. Perhaps a rain was coming to relieve the humid night, but likely it was just the old birch outside, trying to tell her something. Devon bade the vine that coiled around her left arm to radiate a soft green light. A dim shape climbed up the birch. It pounced for the window and missed. Muttering curses, it dangled onto the ledge with two helpless hands. While its legs fumbled for a foothold, Devon, still seated on the sill, dug her fingernails into the intruder’s knuckles.
“What do you want,” she hissed.
“It’s Calhan.”
Devon quickly withdrew her hands and jumped to the floor, as if she had just touched something hot. Calhan grappled his way into the room. By the green glow of her vine, she noticed that his short dark hair, tied back like a fighter, was matted with sweat and dirt. His bare back and chest were covered in scabbing whiplashes and cuts caked with congealing blood. Scratches laced his face and arms.
“You’re back?” Devon asked incredulously.
“Hi Devon. Sorry I had to come in this way. Though,” Calhan grinned, “I’m glad that, after three years of absence, I still remembered which room is yours.” He made himself comfortable on a wooden chair and began quaffing the water-skin at his belt.
She appraised his wounds. “So this is why the seasoned Rogue of twenty-five missed my very windowsill.” Devon let a green-flecked aura pool around her fingers and palms and touched each of his gashes. They sealed neatly with barely a scar.
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. “I failed the mission,” he brooded.
“And yet you’re still alive and audacious enough to return to the Guildhall,” she said as she traced the parallel red lines on his arm. They disappeared. “Explain yourself.”
“I was caught last week. They gave me a few lashes and let me off. No torture, no threats, nothing.” Calhan’s ego seemed bruised.
“You were alone?”
“There were others that escaped with me. But they– ” he hesitated, “—they came into some troubles of their own.” Calhan’s laugh was grim. “And anyways, what’s the use of spies if the enemy can afford to let us live? Trying to contain Tyball’s spreading domination is like trying to dam an ocean. We’ve intercepted communications, removed their key operatives, reported information back to the King’s men…Tyball knows this wait-and-see game of ours is futile. That country’s already got too many soldiers, weapons, and cavalry, not to mention an iron-fisted ruler. If we don’t incur some damages of our own, we’ll soon have to answer to some dead civilians.”
Devon tossed her head in annoyance. “Where’d you pick up this irritating royal ‘we’? We aren’t responsible for this. We don’t have to answer to anyone, alive or dead.”
Calhan caught her last phrase and smiled wanly. “That’s a new outlook. Weren’t you always the one telling us that life itself is a fight against death?”
She ignored the interruption. “If the King and his family weren’t so busy lolling on their velvet cushions and sipping tea, he wouldn’t have let things get this far without training better knights. Those pathetic adolescents have never even seen proper warhorses!” Devon’s voice was getting dangerously high now. Her hatred for nobility made her emotional. She took slow, deep breaths before she continued, “Well. Let’s say that I am not one to sympathize with the court.”
“Clearly. But it’s been six years since your godfather died. Shouldn’t you find out the truth before picking a side?”
Devon reeled in surprise. Had she told him about Atticus, long ago? Calhan leaned towards her and spoke quickly and conspiratorially. “Do you really think the King’s collectors killed him? You didn’t see his murder, did you. Maybe your godfather was more than he professed to be. And, was he really your godfather, or did he deliberately seek you out for another reason?”
Devon’s green-brown eyes were ablaze in the dimness of the room. “I can’t believe your nerve. He professed to be a mage, and he was a mage, you whoreson!” She landed a full-fisted punch in the softest part of Calhan’s stomach. Still seated, he caught her arm, twisted it, and pulled her into a headlock. Devon kicked the chair legs from under him, and in seconds they were both fighting on the ground, Devon venting her frustration and Calhan blocking each punch. After many minutes of cursing and thuds, they both sprawled on the floor, exhausted.
“You called me a whoreson,” Calhan realized.
“You deserved it.”
“Maybe, but leave my mother out of it, alright?” Calhan raised himself up on his elbows. “Look, Devon. I’m just saying you should think about your past, is all. Don’t get wrapped up in flimsy truths.”
Sulky silence.
“And speaking of wraps…” He playfully poked the linen bandages that encircled Devon’s midriff. “I come back after three years and you’ve still got them on,” he humoured. Devon jerked back involuntarily. Under the bandages concealed disfiguring memories from the house fire that she had survived at age five. She kept the bandages on even though the burns, so painful that she hadn’t been able sleep for the first four weeks, had scarred up years ago.
Devon stood up, a slight frostiness in her voice. “It’ll be dawn in a few hours. Get some sleep, okay? You’re starting to act funny from the blood loss.”
Calhan was heading away from her. “I’ve got to go anyhow. I’m sure someone’s already heard odd noises in here and they’ll be investigating any minute.” With a grin, he hopped out of the window.
A thin wail from a house below pricked the heavy air. Another child was born, Devon thought. Suddenly the night seemed busier, livelier. Her instincts told her that she should be down there assisting the midwife. Never mind that Devon was a Rogue; first and foremost she was a healer, a prolonger of life. Life itself is a fight against death, her godfather Atticus had always said. It was he who had adopted her after her parents’ death, honed her nature magic, and taught her nearly everything about plants. These thieves, assassins, and spies who were her patients now did not fear death: they laughed in death’s face. But for Devon, whose parents had burned in a house fire and whose godfather had been later slain by tax-hungry lords, there was nothing worse. Devon had made it her daily mantra: life itself is a fight against death.
Devon heard a faint rustling of leaves and opened her eyes. She hadn’t realized that she had closed them in reminiscence and had fallen asleep. The sun had dipped below the horizon. She heard a louder rustle. Perhaps a rain was coming to relieve the humid night, but likely it was just the old birch outside, trying to tell her something. Devon bade the vine that coiled around her left arm to radiate a soft green light. A dim shape climbed up the birch. It pounced for the window and missed. Muttering curses, it dangled onto the ledge with two helpless hands. While its legs fumbled for a foothold, Devon, still seated on the sill, dug her fingernails into the intruder’s knuckles.
“What do you want,” she hissed.
“It’s Calhan.”
Devon quickly withdrew her hands and jumped to the floor, as if she had just touched something hot. Calhan grappled his way into the room. By the green glow of her vine, she noticed that his short dark hair, tied back like a fighter, was matted with sweat and dirt. His bare back and chest were covered in scabbing whiplashes and cuts caked with congealing blood. Scratches laced his face and arms.
“You’re back?” Devon asked incredulously.
“Hi Devon. Sorry I had to come in this way. Though,” Calhan grinned, “I’m glad that, after three years of absence, I still remembered which room is yours.” He made himself comfortable on a wooden chair and began quaffing the water-skin at his belt.
She appraised his wounds. “So this is why the seasoned Rogue of twenty-five missed my very windowsill.” Devon let a green-flecked aura pool around her fingers and palms and touched each of his gashes. They sealed neatly with barely a scar.
He opened his mouth to speak but then closed it again. “I failed the mission,” he brooded.
“And yet you’re still alive and audacious enough to return to the Guildhall,” she said as she traced the parallel red lines on his arm. They disappeared. “Explain yourself.”
“I was caught last week. They gave me a few lashes and let me off. No torture, no threats, nothing.” Calhan’s ego seemed bruised.
“You were alone?”
“There were others that escaped with me. But they– ” he hesitated, “—they came into some troubles of their own.” Calhan’s laugh was grim. “And anyways, what’s the use of spies if the enemy can afford to let us live? Trying to contain Tyball’s spreading domination is like trying to dam an ocean. We’ve intercepted communications, removed their key operatives, reported information back to the King’s men…Tyball knows this wait-and-see game of ours is futile. That country’s already got too many soldiers, weapons, and cavalry, not to mention an iron-fisted ruler. If we don’t incur some damages of our own, we’ll soon have to answer to some dead civilians.”
Devon tossed her head in annoyance. “Where’d you pick up this irritating royal ‘we’? We aren’t responsible for this. We don’t have to answer to anyone, alive or dead.”
Calhan caught her last phrase and smiled wanly. “That’s a new outlook. Weren’t you always the one telling us that life itself is a fight against death?”
She ignored the interruption. “If the King and his family weren’t so busy lolling on their velvet cushions and sipping tea, he wouldn’t have let things get this far without training better knights. Those pathetic adolescents have never even seen proper warhorses!” Devon’s voice was getting dangerously high now. Her hatred for nobility made her emotional. She took slow, deep breaths before she continued, “Well. Let’s say that I am not one to sympathize with the court.”
“Clearly. But it’s been six years since your godfather died. Shouldn’t you find out the truth before picking a side?”
Devon reeled in surprise. Had she told him about Atticus, long ago? Calhan leaned towards her and spoke quickly and conspiratorially. “Do you really think the King’s collectors killed him? You didn’t see his murder, did you. Maybe your godfather was more than he professed to be. And, was he really your godfather, or did he deliberately seek you out for another reason?”
Devon’s green-brown eyes were ablaze in the dimness of the room. “I can’t believe your nerve. He professed to be a mage, and he was a mage, you whoreson!” She landed a full-fisted punch in the softest part of Calhan’s stomach. Still seated, he caught her arm, twisted it, and pulled her into a headlock. Devon kicked the chair legs from under him, and in seconds they were both fighting on the ground, Devon venting her frustration and Calhan blocking each punch. After many minutes of cursing and thuds, they both sprawled on the floor, exhausted.
“You called me a whoreson,” Calhan realized.
“You deserved it.”
“Maybe, but leave my mother out of it, alright?” Calhan raised himself up on his elbows. “Look, Devon. I’m just saying you should think about your past, is all. Don’t get wrapped up in flimsy truths.”
Sulky silence.
“And speaking of wraps…” He playfully poked the linen bandages that encircled Devon’s midriff. “I come back after three years and you’ve still got them on,” he humoured. Devon jerked back involuntarily. Under the bandages concealed disfiguring memories from the house fire that she had survived at age five. She kept the bandages on even though the burns, so painful that she hadn’t been able sleep for the first four weeks, had scarred up years ago.
Devon stood up, a slight frostiness in her voice. “It’ll be dawn in a few hours. Get some sleep, okay? You’re starting to act funny from the blood loss.”
Calhan was heading away from her. “I’ve got to go anyhow. I’m sure someone’s already heard odd noises in here and they’ll be investigating any minute.” With a grin, he hopped out of the window.