The Night Sentinels escorted him from the Mage’s office to a small closet of a room. Inside was a stool, a clean set of clothes, and a basin of water with a rag for washing. Ean cleaned himself the best he could, then pulled on the clothes provided—a simple tunic, sturdy trousers, worn boots. The typical garb of a traveler. He opened the door once he was finished.
The Sentinel outside glowered at him. “Back inside.”
Ean shut the door. He sat on the stool. He stared at the wall and let out a slow breath. He wasn’t going to be executed. He still had a chance to graduate, still had a chance to see Felix again. Still had a chance at life. He dropped back against the wall in relief and rubbed his sternum. His heart ached from the sustained panic of the last day. He closed his eyes and wondered if there was a god he should thank. Minutes passed, then an hour. His mind drifted, then slipped into a fitful sleep. He dozed on and off until dawn when the door opened. The same Night Sentinel jerked his head at the hall, a wordless command to follow.
Ean trailed him through the servants’ wing, then down to the delivery stables. Aldine was waiting for him in a packed wagon. She wasn’t wearing her Mage’s robes, just a plain woolen dress and cloak. Ean climbed aboard, the driver slapped the reins, and the wagon started off. They left Balucia by the northern road, completely bypassing the shadow-walker guildhall, but Ean craned his head anyway, trying to spot the building. He desperately wanted to see Felix. He wanted to apologize, to say goodbye, to beg for forgiveness, but there was no glimpse of his teacher.
Aldine shared a few details of their journey once they left the city. They were traveling north to the royal family’s hunting lodge in the Red Hills. The King would meet them there, along with the other members of the party. Only then would he reveal the purpose of the quest.
Retired General Dayun Roarke had been picked to lead the mission. Ean knew him by reputation only. He was close friends with the King and had decades of military experience. The Prince’s two best friends, Asali and Chadwick, would be joining the quest as well.
Asali Chikere was the youngest captain in the history of the King’s Guard. Ean had seen her on the training fields during his reconnaissance, a tall woman with dark skin and dark hair. She was fierce fighter, with a sword or without. She was even deadlier with a bow. Chadwick Falsbury was the less obvious choice for a secret mission. At first glance, he was the stereotypical bastard of a powerful man—handsome and well-dressed, careless and carefree, a lover of poorly-timed pranks and off-color jokes. But Ean had followed him to a tavern one night and watched him box in a ring match. He hit hard. And for a man his size, he was unnervingly fast.
The last members of the party were Aldine’s apprentice Flora Harbird, a promising young Fire Mage, and the Prince himself. Ean couldn’t help but ask the obvious question: why was the King sending his only child on such a dangerous quest?
Aldine shook her head. “Not now.”
Her reluctance was telling. She didn’t feel safe sharing that information, not even here, on a remote stretch of road. Ean watched the riders and carts that passed by with growing suspicion.
The journey was tedious. The heavy wagon forced them to keep on the main roads, no matter how circuitous the route. The driver was a disguised Night Sentinel who kept one eye on the road, the other on Ean the entire trip. He didn’t speak, except to converse with Aldine about lodgings at night. Aldine seemed pleased with the quiet. She spent most of her time knitting a scarf made up of more holes than cloth. At night, she held the scarf up to the stars, comparing the her weave of yarn to the constellations above.
Ean sat in the back of the wagon, bored and restless. The relief he’d felt at escaping execution faded with each passing day, and in its place, the specter of fear returned. What sort of quest required the only son of King Justus? What horrors awaited them on this unknown mission?
They reached their destination at sundown on the sixth day. The royal hunting lodge had once been a military fortress, but it’d since been refitted for leisure, not defense. The path leading up the hill had been cleared of trees; the stone wall surrounding the building had fallen to knee-height. A dozen Night Sentinels stood guard on the perimeter. Two more met the wagon as they stopped under the portico. Ean glanced about. He didn’t see any servants or groundsmen, no squires or attendants. There was no one that wasn’t wearing the Sentinel uniform. What sort of paranoia was this?
He followed Aldine into the main hall, a large room with long tables and an open fireplace. A dozen more Night Sentinels gathered here, one stirring a pot of stew over the fire, the others eating at the tables. He and Aldine were each handed a bowl; it smelled of game and vegetables. Aldine didn’t stop to eat. She kept walking and it was clear Ean was meant to follow. He did, the entire contingent of Night Sentinels turning their heads as he passed, their gazes dark with suspicion. Ean’s hands itched, wishing for the comfort of his blades.
Aldine led him to a small room in the back of the hall, tucked between the kitchen and the cellar door. It would have been the cook’s quarters, had there been a cook.
Aldine waved him inside. “The others have already arrived. We’ll meet in the morning.”
Ean had more questions, but she shut the door before he could speak them aloud. He waited to hear the turn of a lock, but it didn’t come.
A small fire flickered in the grate, providing warmth and light. Ean surveyed the room while he sipped the stew. A cot was pressed against the side wall with a window above it, large enough to crawl through if he wanted to escape. Or there was the unlocked door. He wondered if it was a test. If it was, only a fool would fail it. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not after signing a blood-oath.
A rickety table stood in the corner holding a traveler’s pack along with a folded stack of clothes. Ean grimaced as he picked through them. The clothes were well-crafted, but they were far more colorful than anything he’d worn over the past twelve years. Shadow-walkers typically dressed in uniform. When they did wear plainclothes, they stuck to darker shades, better to hide bloodstains. The two long-sleeved tunics he’d been given were pale blue and bright red. The quilted jacket was indigo; the cloak was forest green. The studded leather jerkin was a brash shade of burgundy. The leggings and boots were, thankfully, dark brown. He refolded the clothes and finished the stew. With nothing else to do, he lay down on the cot and slept.
He woke in the morning as footsteps approached the door. Three Night Sentinels entered, not bothering to knock. Two of them dropped a tub of water on the floor. The third set a plate of breakfast on the table. They left without a word.
Ean appreciated the opportunity to bathe. He’d been on the road for the past six days. The accumulated grime and sweat were getting offensive, even to his own nose. The water was cold, but he didn’t care. He scrubbed hard, taking the time to wash his hair as well, and then pulled on one of the traveling outfits. The clothes were comfortable, but they felt foreign on his body. And the colors looked wrong. For familiarity, he put the braids back in his hair.
The braids were, in his opinion, the worst part of being an assassin. Instead of medals or ribbons, shadow-walkers celebrated their achievements with braids, usually decorated with beads of carved wood or precious metals. His own beads, a copper set that had been a gift from Felix, had disappeared after his capture. No doubt they were confiscated with his weapons.
He pulled the hair back from the crown of his head and wove it into a four-strand braid to mark himself as a shadow-walker. Then he put in the four strata braids at his temples, two on either side, to signify that he was proficient in all the shadow-dances. As usual, he seemed to pull out more hair than he braided. He moved onto the braid at the back of his head, the one that indicated he was a master of the Storm-Lightning pair of dances. Each pair, when mastery was achieved, was denoted with an additional braid. It was rare that shadow-walker had all twelve, but Ean intended to achieve them. As of now, he only had the one. It was an impressive feat for his age. And impressive because he still had one more braid to put in: the apprentice braid.
His stomach clenched as he plaited the hair behind his ear. He’d thought he had the chance to be rid of it. Now he was stuck on a secret mission, and he’d still have to take the trials once he made it back. The dread returned. He stared at the plate of breakfast, a simple meal of bread and cheese, and knew the truth.
“I’m going to die.”
His words didn’t sound as dour as he felt. Probably because he’d just escaped execution. Fate, apparently, was a capricious thing. He sat down and ate.