“Intruder?” the duke said. “Nonsense, let the guards have him. That’s what I pay them for.”
The servant shook his head, grabbing the duke’s arms. “The back, quick—”
The word ended in a tight gasp. The servant’s mouth was still moving, but no sound came out. His eyes were wide as he crumpled, the back of his neck cut wide open. He was dead before he hit the ground.
The duke jumped back before he realized what was happening, drawing his sword on instinct alone. Now that the servant was out of the way, he could see the guards at the end of the hall. Both men were down, lying in dark pools with the back of their necks cut, spines severed cleanly, just like the servant’s.
Finley grew very still, eyes searching the shadows while his fingers tightened on his sword. But the house was still, silent except for his own ragged breaths and those of his son behind him.
Without taking his eyes from the door, he motioned Henry back to the fireplace. Other than the windows, the room had only one entrance. Finley kept his sword up, watching the shadows for any trace of movement. On the floor, the servant’s blood was seeping into the thick carpet. It was so quiet the duke could hear the liquid spreading through the fibers. Panic began to rise in his stomach, but Finley fought it down. He took a deep breath, ignoring the taste of blood in the air and forcing himself to be calm, to look.
That was when he saw the killer.
The man stood at the corner where the stairs met the hall, less than five steps from the fallen guards. He was so still that the duke’s eyes had a hard time picking his dark clothes out of the shadows. Finley blinked several times, still not sure if his eyes were telling the truth. If the man was standing at the other end of house, there was no way he could have killed the servant, not from that distance. Perhaps there were two intruders? As Finley’s mind scrambled to reconcile the facts, the man began to move. He rushed forward, racing down the hall in a handful of seconds, his padded feet completely silent on the hardwood floor.
Finley gritted his teeth and cursed himself for a fool. He’d just wasted his only chance to escape. Now the man stood in the study door, blocking the only exit with his body.
“What do you want?” Finley said, surprised at how stern and clear his voice was.
The man didn’t answer. Now that he was standing in the well-lit library, the duke could see the intruder was slender and tall. He was wrapped head to toe in dark cloth, and even his eyes were hidden beneath black netting. He had a sword at his hip, the sheath wrapped in black as well, but Finley could tell it was a short blade. The duke hefted his own sword. There was still a chance. He had reach on the assassin, so did Henry. The killer had lost his chance at surprise by running forward, and it was two on one now.
At once, Finley felt his confidence returning. He inched his feet forward, stepping into position. Behind him, he heard Henry follow his lead. Finley licked his lips, getting ready to shout for Henry to begin the attack. But the words died on his lips, for at that moment, the assassin drew his sword.
The sword appeared with a flash of silver. Its blade was heavy, short, and gleaming with its own silver light. Finley sucked in a breath. A man in Osera didn’t go through a lifetime of sword training without learning to recognize an awakened blade. The duke was no wizard, but even he could see the sword’s surface trembling in anticipation as the assassin stepped over the servant’s body.
The blow came before the duke could think to raise his sword. One moment the assassin was facing them, short sword in hand, the next the sword was through him. Finley gasped more in surprise than pain, looking down at the blade through his chest, and then up again at the man still standing in the doorway holding a sword that was no longer short, but long as a spear with its point jutting out Finley’s back.
On the other side of the room, the assassin flicked his hand. The sword flashed like a wave, the steel sliding out of Finley’s body, and Henry began to scream. The duke jerked in surprise and turned to help his son, but his body wasn’t moving anymore. He toppled, falling to the carpet. He turned as he fell, looking back just in time to see the glowing blade snap like a whip as it finished slitting his son’s throat.
The duke could only stare as Henry fell, hitting the carpet with that now-familiar soft thump. Behind him, he heard the hiss of steel on steel, and he rolled his eyes to see the swordsman’s blade shrinking back to its original size, the glowing metal folding into itself until the assassin held a short sword once again. The killer lifted his gleaming weapon and walked to the window, using the duke’s velvet curtains to wipe Henry’s blood from the blade. Finley’s breath was growing scarce now, but he hardly noticed. Rage filled his body in a way life no longer could, and he lunged across the carpet, grabbing the man by the ankle.
“You dare!” he hissed. “Who are you?”
The swordsman turned to face him and slowly raised his hand to the cloth over his face. He unhooked something behind his ear, and the covering fell away. The duke’s hand went limp with surprise, and he collapsed back to the carpet.
“You,” he whispered in disbelief. And then, with his last breath: “Why?”
The question was barely past his lips when the sword swept down, giving Duke Finley the last and only answer he would ever receive.
CHAPTER
15
It was full dark when Gin pushed through the last crowd of soldiers and under the gate that separated the Spirit Court’s district from the rest of Zarin. Miranda clung to his back, staring bleakly at the wide, suddenly empty streets. The colored lamps were lit and swinging gently in the night air, but no one was around to enjoy the light. From the moment they entered the Spirit Court’s district until Miranda slid off Gin at the foot of the Tower, they didn’t see a single soul.
Stomach sinking, Miranda started up the stairs. She’d always known that the Rector Spiritualis controlled the Tower, but it was an academic, abstract sort of knowledge. She’d seen it in action only once, at her trial. Even so, she never would have imagined something like this.
The Tower was completely sealed. Its enormous red doors lay abandoned on the ground, shed like outgrown scales. In their place, a wall of white stone rose smooth as river rock from the ground. It was as though the entire Tower had become a solid stone pillar, and though she walked all the way around the base, Miranda could find no way in.
“Try knocking?” Gin suggested.
Feeling more than a little foolish, Miranda reached out and rapped her knuckles on the stone. Nothing happened. She pulled her hand back, frowning, and then she reached out again, with her left hand this time, knocking with the heavy gold band on her ring finger, the one set with the Spirit Court’s perfect circle. The gold made a lovely ringing sound when it touched the Tower, and the stone began to twist. The Tower wall rumbled softly, opening like a flower to reveal a tunnel just large enough for Gin to squeeze through.
With one final glance at the empty street, Miranda stepped inside. Gin followed on her heels. The moment his tail was clear, the Tower closed behind them.
They came out in the Spirit Court’s grand entry hall, which looked exactly as it always had except that the grand doors were now grown over with stone and the center of the room was full of huddled people. Spiritualists sat in circles on furniture pilfered from other parts of the Tower. Several had their fire spirits out, and the warm, flickering light filled the void left by the missing windows, giving the room a primal, cave-like feel.
She was scarcely inside when someone shouted, “Miranda!”
She looked up to see a young man break away from the main group and run toward her, waving.
“Jason!” she cried, recognizing him at once.
He stopped in front of her, grinning wide in the light of the will-o’-the-wisp that floated in his wake. Miranda smiled back. She and Jason had been in the academy together and taken their oaths on the same day. He’d gone on to apprentice for some distant Tower Keeper after that, and they saw each other only rarely. Still, they’d always been friends.
“I’m happy to see you,” she said.
“Not as happy as we are to see you,” he said. “Hello, Gin.”
Gin blinked slowly, which was as nice a greeting as one could expect from a ghosthound.
“The Rector said you’d entered the city this morning,” Jason said. “I have to admit, when you didn’t show up at once, some people worried you’d gone over to the Council. I knew better, though. That bunch of traitors are as
