1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Rafael stalked the High One through the misted streets of Clare, the Bright City, though not so bright now as night laid claim to her. He had been watching this High One for two weeks, following him and learning his ways. The creature was skilled and confident, otherwise he wouldn't have come into the Lower Half without a cadre of guards.

Ha, he was too confident for his own good. Rafael felt nothing except savage satisfaction when he considered what he was about to do. The murder of a High One was a serious undertaking and, of all the assassins of the Lower Half, he was the only one to have succeeded. Time and again he had succeeded. Tonight would be no different.

They left the last of the inns behind, heading toward the wharves on the outskirts of the vast island city. Going to check the shipments of whatever elder he served, Rafael knew. This one was a warrior—a challenge. He moved with ease and carried the rapier at his side with the air of a practiced killer. Rafael had watched him fight, watched him kill. A decided challenge, but he relished it. The streets leading to the wharves would be inhabited with nothing but drunks and whores at this time of night, and they knew better than to interfere in business beyond their concern, which this was about to become.

Rafael moved noiselessly along the rooftops, closing on his target. Closer, closer… He judged the distance and leaped suddenly, no flash of shadow or flare of light to give him away. Yet somehow the High One still sensed him.

It was the last possible moment the man could have dodged the savage kick, and he didn't get away completely. Rafael's foot caught his shoulder but not his spine and the High One spun to the side, favoring the injury but drawing his sword lightning fast as he turned back to his attacker. Rafael was impressed. A blow to the spine would have incapacitated the creature long enough for him to pierce his heart or remove his head, but the shoulder would only distract him for as long as it took to heal.

Rafael was quick to keep up his offensive, his slender sabers slicing through the long metallic cloak that hid the upper half of his target's visage. He had intended to cut the High One's face, perhaps blind him, but the creature truly was talented, or lucky. Rafael's blades grazed one cheek and severed the leather thong holding the cloak back. It fell shimmering to the ground, exposing his target's face.

It was the same as all the other High Ones' faces. The change the magic wrought on them gave them invulnerability to the ravages of time but leached the uniqueness out of their flesh, rendering them all the same sickly pale color, incandescent in the dim orange flare of torchlight. His face was thin and unremarkable in its beautiful regularity. His eyes were nearly white, pupils the only break in the viscera's pallor, and his hair was the same glittering silver as the cape that lay crumpled at his feet.

The only interesting thing about this High One was his competency with the blade. Even as he dodged Rafael's sabers, his own rapier flicked out, almost invisible in the faint light, seeking to impale. Rafael rolled forward, unable to stop his momentum but wanting to continue to press, and barely missed the wickedly fast point as he flew beneath it. He levered a cut at the High One's legs but the creature leaped into the air and slightly back, recovering his space and avoiding the cut at the same time.

Rafael narrowed his eyes. Challenging indeed. He struck again, pressing the High One back. It took all his skill to keep his two blades in play. The High One was smart and switched his target from Rafael's body to his hands, trying to disarm him.

This was taking too long. Soon the creature's shoulder would recover and then Rafael would be on the defensive. He was fast and very skilled, but High Ones had advantages of magically enhanced strength and speed and the weight of lifetimes of practice. Surprise had to be on his side for the fight to end fast, and his endurance wouldn't keep him up forever.

He'd have to take some chances. Thrusting his right blade at the High One's face, Rafael dropped his guard on the left side. The rapier came out, pricking, seeking him, but too slow. He had distracted the creature with his first strike and now swept his second saber across the other's thigh, biting easily into flesh and muscle.

It was a pyrrhic victory. The High One recovered and rerouted his own blade down. The point plunged deeply into Rafael's left hand, sliding between thumb and forefinger. He gasped and jerked it back, losing his second saber as he did so. The pain was excruciating but he had been trained to deal with that, even without the healing magic of a High One flowing through his blood. He dropped back and pulled his heavy-bladed athame from his belt.

They stood still for a moment, each surveying the other. Rafael grimaced internally—he could barely grip the athame. The High One was bleeding but, if he could draw this fight out, he'd surely win. Rafael could outrun him, but he never ran from a fight. There was no honor in abandoning his purpose. He existed to kill their kind. If he had to die trying, that was better than living with the memory of failure.

The High One flicked his eyes toward the knife. They narrowed minutely, and he looked back at Rafael with grim curiosity. "How does a low-born cur such as you handle the athame of a master?"

Rafael smiled despite himself. "Perhaps I took it from one of your friends."

The High One snorted derisively. "The athame burns in the hands of one not meant to wield it. Not even a man as clearly insane as you could withstand the pain that long." He took a half step closer, his gaze darting between the knife and Rafael's face.

Suddenly his eyes widened with dawning comprehension. "The prodigal child." A savage smile split his face in two. "The apprentice whom our master turned away. He will enjoy hearing of your death firsthand."

The High One lunged suddenly, his sword a dazzling arrow of light. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten his wound, and placing all of his weight upon the injured leg caused it to buckle slightly. It was all the opening Rafael needed. He parried the rapier with his saber and brought his knife upward in an underhand swing. The blade passed through his target's body, lodging beneath ribs and almost close enough to tickle the heart. The High One gaped in shock, his lungs suddenly unable to draw breath. He fell to his knees, grasping at the knife even as his pale, magic-filled blood gushed out over his fingers.

Rafael shoved the creature face down on the ground. Straddling the still-gasping corpse, he pulled the High One's personal athame from his own belt. It did burn his hand, but Rafael welcomed the pain. He briefly checked the insignia on the hilt. It was true. They had shared the same master.

The pain that blossomed in his heart was far worse than what he felt in his hand, and Rafael forcefully drove the blade through the back of his target, penetrating his heart and punching through the chest wall to scrape against the cobblestones. The High One shuddered violently, once, then truly died.

Rafael released the hilt of the athame, wincing at the crackling of his blackened palm, and retrieved his own blade from the front of the body. He took a moment to bathe his injured hands in the creature's blood, still incredibly potent with healing magic, then wiped his blade clean and replaced it in its sheath. He stood up and put his sabers away, then looked for a long moment at the body of his enemy.

The creature had known of him. They had shared the same master. If things had gone differently for him five years ago, they might have―

Enough ! Using his own blood, Rafael laid a ward around the body to keep others from desecrating it for its latent powers. He was a killer, but he killed for himself, not for the magic-hungry vultures that flocked to his targets. If they wanted blood magic, they could do the killing and spilling themselves. Soon the High One would be found. News like this spread quickly, and it was time he was away. Drawing his hood up and over his face, Rafael melted away into the mist, wanting distance from his latest kill and all the painful emotions it had stirred within him.

He needed a distraction, something or someone to take his mind off tonight's events. Perhaps a gambling house. Fine liquor, luxurious surroundings and the chance to fill his pockets. Or maybe a brothel. It had been some time since he'd visited that district, and nothing diverted Rafael from his own dark thoughts better than the warmth of a willing companion. He'd have to wait for his hands to heal before doing either, however. Blood and blackened skin were hardly conducive to romance or holding cards.

Conscious of interested eyes watching him from the buildings, Rafael walked quickly down a darker alley, windowless and deep. Most people avoided the truly dark places in the Bright City, but Rafael reveled in them. No one who valued their life would follow him into the dark.

He found a low stone stoop and sat down, letting his hands dangle between his knees. The left one still dripped slightly, a mixture of his blood and the High One's forming a small, gleaming puddle on the ground, but the flow was already almost staunched. Flakes of crusty skin drifted down from his right hand as new tissue replaced it. The restorative powers of the magic that the High Ones consumed truly was amazing.

He was lucky to be alive. Rafael sighed and leaned his head back against the cool, damp wall. The High One had been trained by a master assassin, and not just any master. By his own master. The best there was, and that much wasn't wishful thinking, it was an acknowledged fact throughout the whole of Clare. It was the reason Rafael had the skills he had, and not a little of the respect either. His master―

No, he couldn't think about that right now. Not when the blood of another of Xian's apprentices still glistened on his hands. It didn't matter that the man would surely have killed him if Rafael hadn't finished the job. He deserved Rafael's respect.

Settling his body and mind, Rafael dropped into the meditative state he'd first learned as a child, nearly twenty years ago now. Gradually the tension eased from his body. His breathing slowed to a crawl, his heart thudded gently, but he didn't move a muscle. He stayed that way for five hours, long enough for the night to drift toward dawn and his hands to mostly recover. At least, he thought as he looked at them, they'd recovered enough so that he wouldn't frighten whoever he found to get warm with.

Better a brothel than a gambling house tonight—well, today now. He was too tired to play games. Coming to his feet, Rafael stretched for a moment, working the kinks of stillness out of his back and legs before setting off into the light.

Morbid curiosity pulled him back to the scene of his kill. The way was crowded, more High Ones there now. This time they had brought guards, men and women of the Lower Half who gladly served for the chance that they might, someday, be deemed worthy of entrance into the ranks of the High Ones.

Rafael stifled a snort. Those who did menial work for the High Ones almost never got changed. There were thousands more like them, just waiting for an opening in the ranks and their own slim chance at immortality. He craned his neck slightly to look at the body. Near immortality. No, the best way to become a High One was to be taken as a child and made an apprentice, indoctrinated into the system from an early age so you never questioned, never faltered, never disobeyed. If you pleased your master, he or she would change you. It took years for the process to be complete, but the wait was worth it.

Or so he'd once thought.