Chapter 34
The wind slid over the Smith’s smooth stone entry stoop, the sun’s warmth long leached away.
It was night, and the rock was a cold reflection of the starless sky.
The wind hadn’t thought the solange-eyed one would hunch in his fortress like a king slouched on his throne, yet it could hear his rumbling voice breaching the front door.
The wind huffed, nudging at the metal. It was the all-seeing eye.
The last time the wind had seen this golden eye, it had swung on silent hinges guarding the Night Den.
It sniffed, finding traces of fire and Furtig.
The Night Den was gone, but it seemed the solange-eyed one had carried its door back to his new home.
The all-seeing eye winked, and the wind laughed.
It would only let a creature pass if it had good inside.
A drop was enough. The solemn one barely managed to slip past the all-seeing eye.
The rocklike one sipped Furtig to fool the eye—the only good in him was through what he stole or consumed.
The solange-eyed one had not tasted good.
He had tasted wrong, twisted, and cruel.
But . . . the wind paused, wondering. Why had he welded this door to his fortress? Was he afraid of evil entering, or was he afraid of himself? Was it a daily test he forced himself to pass every time he stepped over the threshold?
The wind sighed. What would the solange-eyed one do if the door barred him from his own rightful home?
It didn’t know.
The wind knocked against the door. Knocking was polite. Then it slipped through the keyhole, wound itself around the steel mechanisms, and slipped into the Smith’s home.
It followed the sound of the solange-eyed one’s voice.
This fortress was not as welcoming as the boy’s home—destroyed now—nor as beautiful as the Bards’—burned now—nor as interesting as the Clarks’—buried now.
It was a hollow sort of place that echoed like the wind whistling through a carved-out bone.
There were weapons on the walls: shields, spears, swords.
There were medieval tapestries, renaissance paintings, and suits of armor.
There were no soft, silky curtains to flutter, nor velvet couches to stroke, nor even silk rugs to rub its belly on.
It was a hard, unyielding, Smith-like place.
Perhaps the reason the wind could never understand the Smiths was because there wasn’t a single cushion to curl up on, not a bit of sunlight streaming over a window seat, and not one linen curtain to flutter through.
There were hard, echoing walls, sharp, biting blades, and uncomfortable furniture.
Spartan. Stoic. No honey-soaked crumpets or afternoon tea.
No perfumes or floral scents. No soft laughter or music to swirl in.
The only thing the Smiths had was battle-minded men and women encased in battle-ready walls.
The wind sighed.
The solange-eyed one had once been a sensual creature. What was the Night Den but an ode to creation’s sensual pleasures? But it seemed he’d thrown off the velvet sprawl, the solange scents, and the hedonistic mist for . . .
The wind huffed and brushed against the solange-eyed one’s jaw.
For . . . this.
“We’ve taken Istanbul?” The solange-eyed one’s voice echoed through the stone hall, and the wind shivered in its electric thunder.
The room was crowded with Smiths. There were enough to fit on a city bus.
The wind had wondered if the Smiths would accept the solange-eyed one as their principal.
It shouldn’t have. The Smiths blended family hierarchy, blood loyalty, and military-mindedness into a tradition that meant as soon as the wolflike one had declared the solange-eyed one his heir, all Smiths accepted him as their leader. No questions. No doubt. Only loyalty.
A Smith in black tactical gear, who looked as if she’d been carved in granite, gave a sharp nod. “Yes, sir.”
The wind flinched at the whiplike snap of her voice.
“London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beijing, Saint Petersburg, Sydney?”
“Yes, sir.”
This was nothing new. Nothing interesting. Smiths were always taking cities and trying to conquer the world. Besides, whenever the crown changed hands, the new head always wrestled cities away from the old.
Centuries ago, there was a human nation who followed a similar tactic.
Whenever the monarch died, all his retainers, servants, and loyal staff were killed.
Entire cities’ worth of people were often slaughtered during the transition of power.
Sometimes, the monarch’s entire army was buried alive.
It was a common thing. In this nation, thousands were often buried alive for something as simple as looking in the monarch’s direction.
When the king died, his royal city was abandoned.
The buildings were left empty. The temples left bare.
They were abandoned so the earth could swallow them whole.
Afterward, a new city was built for the new monarch.
This was similar to what the Smiths were doing now. The solange-eyed one had been crowned, and the drive to consolidate power was too strong for any ruling conjurer to resist. It was an instinct that drove them as soon as the weight of the crown sank onto their bare heads.
This happened every hundred years. The Smith would wrest control of the world’s cities and governments. He would cut the strings of the Bard’s power and tie nations to himself. It would happen willingly or forcefully, but it would happen.
In all the years the wind had watched, no one had ever been able to stand against the turning tide as the crown of illusion settled its power on the new ruling family.
The solange-eyed one’s eyes narrowed on the illusion spread across the hall. It was a large, flat map of the world, floating over the cold stone floor like a magic carpet. Some of the landforms were illuminated in a bright blue light, but others remained dark.
“Don’t worry, brother,” the battle-hardened Smith said happily. “We’ll liberate them all.”
The wind growled and shoved at the battle-hardened one.
He’d worn the same smile after killing the wind’s beloved man.
He’d even worn this smile when he shoved the boy from the cliff.
The wind rushed the battle-hardened one again, but he didn’t notice.
Of course he didn’t—he was a sword, and swords never noticed the wind.
The solange-eyed one lifted an eyebrow as the papers on a long wooden table fluttered and then swept to the floor.
The wind shoved them about and blew them further as the battle-hardened one went to pick them up.
He stooped to grab a letter, and the wind blew it just as his fingers brushed the paper.
He swore, bent again, and then the wind blew the paper out of reach.
The wind made a fool of the battle-hardened one a third time.
He stooped and pecked at the ground like a robin taunted by a worm.
He missed every time. What fun. What delicious, delirious fun.
It could make a fool of him all day long.
The solange-eyed one smothered a laugh and brushed his hand over his mouth, hiding a smile. The wind perked up, abandoning its game. It trailed toward him.
He could still laugh?
He could still smile?
“What did you say?” the battle-hardened one asked. He’d gathered the papers and shoved them back on the table.
The solange-eyed one hid his smile and shook his head. “Nothing. Just wondering . . . if we liberate them all, who will liberate them from their liberators?”
The battle-hardened brother laughed and gripped the solange-eyed one’s shoulder. “You sound just like Dad.”
The wind swirled around the solange-eyed one’s legs, turning a figure eight through his ankles. This was curious. This was a strange thing.
Before, the solange-eyed one had been a twisted, cruel, rage-filled creature.
He’d smelled of wrath, with a bitter, acrid taint.
He’d smelled broken and wrong. The wrongness had bunched his muscles and twisted his bones.
He’d been a dark thing. His eyes had made the wind tremble, and his voice had made the wind moan.
But this wasn’t a dark thing.
This was a curious thing.
The Smiths’ voices rumbled in the stone room, cities fallen, governments seized, assassinations in play. The wind ignored the plots and instead concentrated on the plotter.
Who was this?
Who was he?
Was he the solange-eyed one, or was the twisted one him?
The wind trailed up his arm and sniffed his skin.
He smelled as if he’d recently taken a hot shower and scrubbed himself with balsam soap.
There was still a trace of salt and sweat on his skin and a hum in his muscles that meant he’d recently fought with a sword or run a long distance.
His pulse boomed steadily, his blood a calm wave.
He tasted . . . he tasted mournful but hopeful.
Like a man staring up at the stars, wishing he could reach out and touch them.
There was power in him. It burned, raged, and crashed. His mother was a Bard, his father a Smith, and his illusion was an ocean of fire. But where was the acrid scent? The cruel scent?
Nowhere.
The wind fluttered the ends of his dark hair and tickled the back of his neck.
When the solange-eyed one had visited the first mine, he hadn’t smelled cruel either. The wind didn’t like to think of it, but he hadn’t smelled wrong when the battle-hardened one had killed the man.
It sighed and whispered a question.