“Heldrin. Heldrin! What are you doing? Stop! Fight it, man, fight it!” Minox tried vainly to fight back, but in his bound state, he wasn’t very effective.
“Now let’s bring him to Mister Senek, my brother,” Crenaxin said. He picked up a large knife and handed it to Rynax. “As for you, I would love it if you would carve out all his bones.” He looked over to the Thorn. “His meddling caused so much pain, and I would love to have that repaid.”
Rynax nodded. His face made it clear he understood. He examined the knife with meticulous care as he approached the Thorn. The Nine were glory, and he served them. Dayne served them, served the Brotherhood, whatever the High Dragon would need.
“Asti, no,” the Thorn said. “Asti, wake the blazes up. Asti!”
“Come, my Tarian brother,” High Dragon Crenaxin said. “The power and the blessings of the Nine await us.”
He left the sanctum, and Dayne followed happily, the futile screams and protestations of the Thorn fading in the distance.
Chapter 17
THE OPERA HOUSE HAD BEEN a marvel of eleventh-century architecture, one of the many grand buildings in North Maradaine of white stone with tall columns and windows of colored glass that had been built during the Renewal after the Reunification. The Renewal had brought a resurgence of art in all forms, and while the plays of Darren Whit and his contemporaries had remained popular since then, opera had fallen out of favor in Maradaine for the past sixty years or so. The opera house had been shuttered, abandoned, and boarded up for decades.
Amaya shouldn’t have come alone. She knew she shouldn’t have, but with Dayne and Jerinne both out, she wasn’t sure who else to trust.
Amaya had been vaguely aware of the news surrounding Duchess Erisia Leighton of Fencal buying the building, and starting the work to reopen it fully restored in all its original glory. She had the goal of reestablishing opera as the pinnacle of art and culture in the city. She would mount the classics, she would commission new works.
That had been four or five years ago, and the outside of the opera house had shown many signs of the restoration moving along: painting, scaffolding, laborers going in and out for months on end. But then the news slowed, and when asked about the status of the opera house and its expected opening, Duchess Leighton would just answer there had been “unexpected delays.”
The rumors were that she had run out of money.
But now that Amaya was here outside the dark building, she wondered if the real reasons were far more nefarious. The place was spectacular, a testament to the hard work and dedication that had been put into the restoration. Posters had been pasted to the walls touting the productions of Demea and Canus and Inama and The Kingship Cycle. Amaya had no idea what those last two were, but the posters were dynamic and dramatic.
She circled around the building twice, trying to decide just what she was looking for. She had her suspicions, fueled entirely by Kemmer’s notes. He thought the Grand Ten were meeting here, that was why the opera house had stayed closed for so long. She wanted to get inside, but to what end? It wasn’t as if they would be meeting right now. What was she here for? Proof?
Proof of what? And reportable to whom?
This might have been a waste of time. The certainty that brought her here at this hour bled away.
Just as she thought that, she noticed a back door that was slightly ajar. She was nearly certain it hadn’t been that way when she first circled around the building. Was someone else here?
Maybe this was a chance for answers.
She slipped into the open door, moving as quietly as she could while carrying a shield. She drew her sword, knowing that she couldn’t rely on stealth at all right now, so she might as well be ready for a fight.
There were voices in the distance. Someone else was here. At least a few people. Down the steps. She followed cautiously.
“Why aren’t we just killing him?”
“Those aren’t the orders.”
“That’s absurd, you know.”
“I do know, but still, those are the orders.”
Amaya crept to the bottom of the stairs, to a hallway that stretched the length beneath the stage. Dressing rooms, storage, props and sets, by the look of things. Voices were coming out of one of the dressing rooms. Two men came out, and Amaya slipped into a costume room before they saw her.
“Just leave him there?”
“He’s not going anywhere, and it’s what the boss wants.”
“Fine by me. Let’s go get some crisp and crankers, I know a place.”
Their voices receded down the hallway, and Amaya went over to the door they had come from. Unlocked. She went in, ready for anything.
A man, bloody, bandaged, and blindfolded, tied up in a chair.
She went over and knelt by him. “Sir, are you all right?”
“Who . . . who’s there?” he muttered.
“Let’s get you out of here,” she said, working at the knots binding him. “My name is Amaya, who are you?”
“Kemmer,” he mumbled. “Amaya who?”
Blazes, she had found him.
“Did the Grand Ten attack you?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“What—” He tried to pull his hand out of the binds, but couldn’t. “How did you know—”
“I’ve been looking for them. Looking for you. Trying to—”
Before she got any further, the door slammed shut, and then she heard the sound of it being barred. Trapping her in this small room with Kemmer.
“The blazes?” she said.
“Thank you, Miss Tyrell,” she heard someone on the other side of the door say. “You’ve made things so much easier for us.”
Verci woke to the bells ringing.
Someone had tripped the spiderwires down in the shop.
Intruders.
“Raych,” he whispered, touching his wife on the shoulder. “Wake up.”
“What is it?” she asked blearily.
“Someone’s in the shop.” He got to his feet, quickly pulling on pants and boots. He pulled a
