Chapter 31
T he tunnel opened into a wide cavern, and the ship pressed on up the river.
It was darker here, a murky mist, like twilight after fog settles in for the night.
Because of the expanse of the cavern, the magic crystals were placed on walls and rocks, and that made the river flowing in between, unlit.
It gave the riverside beyond a ghostly aura.
Shikra … Fyn turned to her. “Come here.” He motioned for her to join him at the railing. “Come on, I want to show you something.”
She stood up after only a little reluctance and walked to the railing. “Look out, past the water’s edge,” he said, leaning in closer until the side of his face almost touched hers. “It’s coming up soon.”
Aelrie turned to the water to look out past the haze. There was nothing at first. Purple light then cut through the dark. Bold, incandescent, almost as if set alight by violet fire, it radiated power.
An imposing black gate came into view as their ship teetered along the river’s edge.
Magical energy hummed from the stone. No, not from the stone, but from the place itself.
Fyn told her that only those born from great Houses or those associated with Houses could learn to wield magic, and now, she felt its immense power.
She knew it was a great House before he told her.
The thick black gate lay on either side of wide black stone steps that led upwards to what resembled a fortress that spoke not only of well-guarded treasures, but also of wealth and privilege few could ever hope to attain.
A black stone House shimmered through the mist. Its high towers held spires that rose to great heights, even reaching the top of the cavern, which could not be seen above the misty darkness.
Two guards stood at the top of the stairs before an arched entryway inlaid with smoky quartz that glimmered in the dark.
They wore black robes underneath shiny black armor and, strapped at their backs, black greatswords.
They stood motionless, gazing into the beyond, silent and solemn as stone in their vigil but not without the thinly veiled threat of death should anyone not invited chance up those mighty steps.
“This is House Shadowblade,” Fyn said off to the side as he looked up the stone steps. “Where I spent the first thirty years of my life.”
Aelrie turned to Fyn and watched him as he watched the last of House Shadowblade disappear from their view.
He then turned to her when it was completely gone from sight.
“This is where you’ll find most of the great Houses in the Evergloom, along this riverside headed to Myrkheim.
There are twenty Houses in all, and seventeen of them are here. ”
Other great Houses came up both on their left and right, but she paid no attention to them. “You called yourself ‘bastard of House Shadowblade.’ What did you mean by that? ”
“Exactly what I said. I am Korfyn Shadowblade’s bastard son.”
“And are you proud of that?”
He shrugged. “Pride holds no sway over me. Truth is painful, but a lie is foolish. I would rather die a thousand deaths than be consumed by despair. If I do not hope, I do not despair,” he said, and a sad wistfulness was apparent in his gaze, “especially for things long gone from me.”
They were the same in that regard, at least about living in truth.
She still had hope, though, when he did not.
But despair gnawed at her sometimes, picking away at her hope slowly.
The way he described despair, she never wanted to feel that emptiness.
Had he experienced despair? Is that why his words sounded so true to her, as if it were a premonition of things to come should all her hope fade?
“If the truth does not bother you, then tell me your truth. Where did you learn to become an assassin?”
He frowned. “Wrong question. You know I will not answer that one.”
He must have noticed the disappointment on her face, because he followed up with, “But what I will tell you is what led me to become an assassin. How I became the bastard son of House Shadowblade.”
The next words came out of his mouth with little emotion as if he were recalling a book he’d read a long time ago, but one he knew from heart and could recite at will. She listened patiently to his story.
“I was born into House Shadowblade as a firstborn son, but my father did not marry my mother. She was a former prostitute; it’s where they …
met. But when we lived in House Shadowblade, she was tr eated as the lady of the House, and I, its firstborn son.
I’m sure you can imagine the life of affluence and excess we once lived because of that.
Although this all changed when my father agreed to an arranged marriage.
We immediately lost our positions. My mother was relegated to scullery maid, and I, servant boy.
I see what you’re thinking, and you are correct.
I didn’t take it well. For the entirety of my life up until that point, I was the spoiled heir to House Shadowblade, but now I had to clean toilets.
The other house servants, who never liked us to begin with, always saw us as inferior and loathed having to serve us before now, bullied us with beatings and extra work on top of our already full load.
My father stopped talking to me, stopped spoiling me with gifts and private lessons.
After a while, he stopped looking my way at all. ”
She sighed, understanding the situation. It wasn’t an uncommon one. Such a sad tale, but a tale as old as time in noble houses, unfortunately.
Fyn continued after a pause, “Two years later, a baby was born to the newly-wed couple, a boy, named as firstborn. They came for us in the night, my father’s assassins.
I remember my mother pulling me from my bed.
We fled to the river, catching a ride on a passing ship kind enough to allow a mother and child on board with no coin for passage.
But my father’s assassins were at our heels.
They followed us to Myrkheim. My father couldn’t allow us to live because of me.
He couldn’t let me live to claim my inheritance and the family magic; everything would go to my infant half-brother.
We couldn’t stay in the city proper. We had to go underground, into hiding, but we had no money.
Our life after that was brutal, harsh, and cut short too soon.
That’s my past history with House Shadowblade. ”
She didn’t get the information she wanted, but she wasn’t disappointed. Hearing his story shifted something inside her. Telfyn Shadowblade wasn’t just the assassin Shikra anymore; he was Fyn, the Dark Elf she’d grown to trust.
“Do you hate the name?” she asked quietly. “I mean Shadowblade.”
“No. I cannot hate who I am.”
“Fyn.” He met her eyes when she spoke his name. “About your mother.” His gaze fell away. But she had to keep going. She’d already come this far, already dared to ask. “What happened to her?”
“She died.” That was all he said.
“But how? What happened?”
What she truly longed to understand was how he became what he was now, an assassin. Who had trained him? If not House Shadowblade, then who?
Why had they wanted Lindana dead?
Yet beneath all that questioning lay another need, one just as urgent. She wanted to understand him —not just the killer, but the man shaped by darkness and pain.
His eyes narrowed in on her. “Why are the details of her death so important to you?” His tone was slightly less harsh than his gaze.
Pressing her lips together, she fought the sting in her chest. She must have struck a nerve. It seems this truth was still painful for him. She should give up, but something in her goaded her on, to explore deeper into his well of emotions, even though she knew not what she’d find .
“You wouldn’t have told me about your mother, your real name.” Her eyes found the strength to meet his. “If you didn’t want to talk about it.”
His gaze was penetrating. She had a point, and he knew it. “She died a pitiful death in Myrkheim’s underbelly, the Doom Crypts. Are you happy now that you know that?”
The Doom Crypts. She did not know what that was, but if it was a crypt for the Dark Elven dead, then she wondered why on Yggdrasil any elf would live down there. Unless they had no other choice. What he said earlier about his mother not being able to stay in the city proper came to mind.
“No.” Why would anyone be happy about that? He was defensive, acting too antagonistic. “I’m not happy. And I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“I hate that expression, ‘sorry.’ Sorry for what? Is my life so pitiful that you feel sorry for me?”
She shot back, “It’s not because I pity you! I am empathizing with you.”
He bristled at her words but relented after a minute of silence.
“It was a place of death and shadows. No elves ventured down into the crypts except thieves and murderers. We hid all the time. I remember being so afraid of the dark that I cowered behind my mother’s skirt.
I was a spoiled brat; I cried and made too much noise.
She couldn’t leave me alone to find food. It was my fault she died.”
She was about to respond with, “I’m sorry,” but his previous reaction to those words stalled her. She still wanted to comfort him, let him know his secret was safe with her, and that he did a good thing in opening up to her about himself, his past. He’d probably never done this before .
“It wasn’t your fault,” she said and took hold of his arm as strong muscles flexed underneath her touch. “A mother would never think that way. Your mother would never blame you.”
“I blame myself, that’s all I need.” His voice was softer now.
“Just the same as me. I blame myself for Lindana’s death, even though it was you who killed her.”
His eyes widened. He hadn’t expected that from her and was quick to change the topic.
It must have been something he didn’t want to admit to himself.
“I’ve told you my story, now it’s your turn.
There wasn’t a cave-in at the Sintal exit.
Stop, don’t say anything. I already know the answer. Just nod.”
She nodded.
“Why did you follow me? What do you want from me, truly?”
She blinked. “I … I …”
“Don’t lie to me. I can see it in your face. You’re not used to lying, and you do a poor job of it. I was honest with you. You need to do the same for me.”
She sighed. “I wanted to follow you to Myrkheim. I need to know who you contacted at the temple, the Light Elf you met.”
She needn’t tell him the whole truth, though.
He leaned back slightly and assessed her. The look on his face told her he had expected something like this from her.
“Fine,” he relented. “One truth for a truth. But I have already told you a truth, and you have told one in return. We are even. But since I am generous, I will give you a gift. The Light Elf I met at the temple, who let me inside to kill the high priestess, I did not know his name, and I had never met him before. He was my contact. But I can tell you he was elderly, and he knew the temple well, the grounds and layout.”
Males were not allowed in the Temple of the Starsun unless they were guards or had reason to be there.
She only knew of three males who frequented the temple: Councilor Vainir Neverwinter, the handsome and extremely popular yet enigmatic member of the Elven Council who made generous contributions to the temple and whose presence was always welcomed, but he was much too young to be considered elderly.
Two other males fit the elderly description, who were allowed in the temple and knew the grounds: Nerilion Silvercoin, a high priest of another famous temple, and Rinorn Eldertree, another councilor whose visits were not as often as Vainir’s, but he was also a great patron of the temple.
“Can you tell me more? What exactly did he look like?” she asked, trying to pry more information out of him—information that might give her a definitive answer. “Were his robes trimmed in gold?”
“No. He wore all white.”
Then it had to be Nerilion Silvercoin, the High Priest of the Temple of the Eternal Truth.
While the Temple of the Starsun housed the high priestess along with her priestesses and dealt with the Midsummer festival and in keeping the Flame of Neverending Light lit, the Temple of the Eternal Truth housed both priests and priestesses, powerful soothsayers and clairvoyants who saw both future and past in their magical azure flames .
Why would the High Priest of the Temple of the Eternal Truth want Lindana dead? There was no competition between the two temples. The possibilities swirled around in her brain, but she could make no sense of it.
Also, one other thing bothered her. Why did Nerilion, a Light Elf with a powerful position in society, have a connection with the Dark Elves? A piece of the puzzle was missing, and she needed to find it to solve this mystery.
She had to know. To do that, she had to be bold. “One more truth for a truth. That night we spent together,” she started in a small voice, trying to muster the courage to say it out loud. “Ruined me. No other male will ever be able to satisfy me the same way you did.”
His eyebrow perked up; his devious smile returned. “Oh?”
“Now, tell me a truth. The elf you met at the temple, was it he who ordered the high priestess’s murder?”
“No.”
Then Nerilion was a contact but not the main actor. “Who was it, then?”
“I cannot tell you, for I do not know his name, only his face. Even still, I could not tell you what he looked like. Confidentiality is key in my trade.”
“His.” Interesting.
He had given her a clue inadvertently. But she knew him well enough to know it was done on purpose.
“Who gave you the order to kill the high priestess?”
“That is not truth. It is a secret. One met with grave consequences in its knowledge. ”
She couldn’t hide her disappointment.
He stepped closer to her, whispering in her ear, “But I will tell you one thing. A truth for a truth. You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted. I’ve gone insane. All I do is think of you. If you are ruined, then so am I.”