Never (Prequel to The Amber Isle)

Copyright © 2016 by Ashley Capes

Cover: Illustration by Lin Hsiang, Design by Vivid Covers

Layout & Typeset: Close-Up Books

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, or information storage and retrieval without permission in writing from the author.

ISBN-978-0-9945289-4-0

www.ashleycapes.com

Published by Close-Up Books

Melbourne, Australia

Never

(Prequel to The Amber Isle)

Ashley Capes

Chapter 1.

Air rushed from Never’s lungs as the brute landed another blow.

Never choked on a curse as he doubled over. The two other guards lifted him again, grip tightening further. “I can’t help feeling... there are other ways to tell me... Lord Firmita is busy,” Never gasped as he glanced up to the leader’s silhouette. The man was a hulking figure before the torchlight that caught in the warm breeze and twisted across stony manor walls.

There was not much to see, just two glittering eyes in a darkened face. The man’s lip would be bleeding too, courtesy of Never’s elbow.

“Search the fool. Knife him if he gives you any trouble.”

Rough hands snatched the pack from Never’s shoulders. Another man searched his vest and the inner pockets of his cloak, removing several knives and tossing them to the grass.

Damn swine.

The rebuke could have been directed at himself – he’d misjudged them. Quite clearly his story of meeting Firmita in the garden had been pretty thin, especially now that he was being robbed by the man’s guard. Given a chance, Never might still talk his way into a meeting with the lord of the manor and find what he needed.

Unless his blood got free.

Then, no amount of talk would make a difference. But so long as they didn’t cut him, everything would be fine. Offer no resistance, let them search. Keep calm.

The empty purse at his belt elicited a curse from the leader. “You’ve got nothing.” The big man spat. “No gold, no silver, nothing.”

“I’m just as disappointed as you,” Never said.

The man folded his arms, muscles bulging beneath the edges of his tunic. Red and yellow strips appeared near black in the night but the white from the rest of the tunic seemed bright enough to shave by. So clean. How did they manage it? Testament to Lord Firmita’s fastidiousness, perhaps.

One of the fellows holding Never sighed. “Let’s just take him to Firmita already. He’s obviously worse off than us.”

“Good idea,” Never said. “After all, we wouldn’t want him catching his men robbing a guest, would we? He’s rather devout, as I understand it.”

One snorted. “Guest?”

“Wait a minute,” the guard holding his pack said. “What’s this? Diego, want to take a look?” Never sighed when the man carefully lifted a wrapped relic then unwound the cloth to reveal a hunk of carved stone shaped as a fish.

Or so it seemed at first glance.

The fellow frowned down at it. “It looks old.”

“Good guess,” Never muttered, unable to stop himself.

“Shut your mouth,” the leader, Diego, said as he waved the men closer.

In the yellow glow of the torchlight, the carvings on the piece of stone glittered – the granite he’d worked into the surface to mimic scales and more, to mimic the old relics once commonly found near the Sand Cliffs. The way the guards’ eyes lit up suggested it had fooled them – but would it fool their lord?

And would Never even get a chance to attempt his ploy? After trying for weeks to arrange a meeting with the collector, some boldness had seemed in order... but there was boldness and there was foolishness.

“Now this we can sell,” one guard said.

Diego shook his head. “No chance, Bu.”

“Why not?” Bu whined.

“Think you or I know the first thing about what it’s really worth? Or who to sell it to?”

Grumbling.

“Put it back.” The leader flexed his hands, balling them into fists as he began to pace in and out of the torchlight, clean-shaven jaw working. Finally, “Search him for more knives then take him to see Firmita.”

“What if he talks, Diego?” the other one asked. “You know, about us robbing him.”

“If he tries that, leave it to me. If I say he’s an assassin, Firmita will put him in the cells. Once he’s there I’ll kill him and blame it on the other prisoner.”

“Charming,” Never said. And just why had guards taken up thievery?

Diego flashed an evil grin before stalking off into the darkness.

One of the guards kicked Never in the back of the knees. He fell, cheek thumping against the grass. Never growled. No matter how neat Lord Firmita kept his grounds, there was nothing to be done about the immediate itch.

Bu held Never’s own dagger against his throat while the second fellow searched, finding the knife strapped to the small of his back.

“We can sell a few of these at least,” Bu said.

“Not being paid well enough?” Never asked.

“Diego said shut up,” the other guard snapped.

“Just one more thing – you forgot my boot,” Never said.

The man grunted as he shuffled down to remove that blade too. That was all of them and it might build some trust, which he needed if he was going to survive long enough to get a proper look at Firmita’s collection of ancient relics.

Would his luck hold?

On the other hand, he was inside now, and sometimes that was half the battle. Being captured and unarmed made everything more difficult, admittedly, but life tended to be dull without challenges.

And he needed to see the lord’s collection. The legend of the Sunken City might just be real after all, and one of Firmita’s maps marked the location. Or so rumour held.

“Up with you then,” Bu said.

Never stood, allowing his hands to be bound with coarse rope that dug into his skin, and then stumbled forward when the men pushed him toward the light. Beyond the first torch waited a heavy door leading into the manor, which Bu thumped upon. Windows above offered no movement, no light.

Silence followed.

Bu beat against the wood again and waited. Still no response.

“Perhaps they’re sleeping something off,” Never said.

“Keep quiet,” the other guard muttered.

When the door finally opened, a man waved them in without apology or explanation, ignoring a curse directed at him by his fellows.

A dim corridor of stone stretched to a distant staircase, twin lamps casting a pale glow across two figurines. When his escort reached the stair Never raised an eyebrow. Twin rearing stallions flanked the steps. Both brass and both polished to such a high sheen that he had to fight a childish urge to smear one with a handprint as he passed. Firmita was beyond fastidious – he was perhaps obsessed; why else ensure such attention to detail in what had to be a minor entrance to the manor? The man was hardly going to admit the Empress via such a passage.

At the top of the stair Never was shoved along a narrow passage of wooden-panelled walls, again dimly lit, and finally into a small room with table, two chairs and a cold lamp, which Bu lit.

Then the two closed the door and the sound of a key rattling in a lock followed.

“No parting words, then?” Never asked.

Silence.

He paced. Firmita would doubtless arrive in moments, which meant Never would soon find himself within reach of another clue, thrown outside, or sent to the cells with the other prisoner. Which was odd. Why did the Marlosi lord have a prisoner? Any serious crime would have been dealt with by the Imperial Guard. Was something afoot? If so, it sounded like the sort of business Never ought to avoid.

But choices were few and far between these days.

After years of dead-ends and rumours, he finally had something to go on.

The manor held another clue: outside of the Imperial Palace, Firmita’s collection of relics from ages past was among the finest. Priceless. Of course, the gold didn’t matter. But the sunken city of Quisoa, if real, might hold another piece of the puzzle on the twisted road to discovering the truth behind Never’s curse.

Perhaps even his true name.

“One thing at a time,” he muttered.

Footsteps approached. Never lifted his head expectantly as once again a key turned in the lock. The door swung open and two men entered – Diego, his face now set in an expression of neutrality, and the Lord of the Manor.

Not a single silvery hair appeared out of place on the man’s head and his beard too, the colour of iron, had been trimmed to a fine edge. His sunken eyes were even ringed by just a touch of kohl – typically a woman’s embellishment, or, as was growing fashionable among the nobility it seemed, something only for the very rich. And very vain.

He carried the fake relic, which he set upon the table before motioning for Never to sit.

Never did so. “Thank you for seeing me.”

“This is a fair forgery of an ancient rockfish relic,” Firmita said without preamble, his voice hard.

“Ah.” Trouble.

The man frowned. “You do not deny it. What was your purpose with this?”

Never sighed, drawing it out. The truth would not win him any favours. “Gold. I am fallen upon hard times and this was my final ploy.”

“I see.” The man stood. “I hope Pacela will grant you mercy. Nevertheless, you will be imprisoned until such time as I have to call the Imperial Guard.”

“That is fair.”

“What is your name?”

“Never, My Lord.”

The man stiffened. “You refuse me?”

Never raised his hands, still bound. “Not at all, Lord Firmita. But that is my name: Never.”

Firmita studied him a moment before motioning to Diego and spinning on his heel. The guard hauled Never back into the hall, where Bu and the other one waited with frowns. Escape was still a problem – but not the first. The first was time. Firmita appeared curious now, and that was a bad thing. Curiosity meant watchfulness and if the Lord rushed through whatever it was that kept him from sending for the guard or resuming questioning...

Forced back along the dim passage and down a flight of stone steps concealed behind a hidden door, Never was led to another darkened room. Bu had brought the lamp and its glow revealed a row of cells – half a dozen perhaps. Few appeared used, as dust and webs covered many. A shape lay huddled in the corner of the nearest cell.

Diego opened the adjacent cell, pushed Never inside, clanged the door shut then leant against the bars as he untied Never’s hands. “You did the right thing back there so let’s keep it that way, Never, or I’ll be back. Understand?” he said. “You keep your mouth shut.”

Never offered no answer.

“Did you hear what I said?”

Still Never said nothing.

“Answer me, scum.”

Nothing.

Diego’s nostrils flared and he reached for the cell door. Never grinned. “I thought you wanted me to keep my mouth shut.”

The man shook his head and spat on the floor before storming out, taking his fellows and the light with him. Never chuckled as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The even breathing from the other cell suggested his fellow prisoner was not waking any time soon, since he – or she – hadn’t so much as stirred.

There was little light to adjust to. Clouds seemed to have covered the moon and so very little starlight slipped through the dusty strip of a window high above. He could just make out the grass but other than that, there was nothing to see outside and little reason to climb up and look. Without losing a lot of body mass, he wasn’t squeezing through. Nor would anyone with a chest broader than a hands-width.

Never gripped one of the bars – steel cold against his palms – and gave it a shake. Nothing. He moved on to the next one; same result. But when he reached the last bar his fingers found the grit of rust. “Ah.” Never twisted the bar, a grinding sound his reward. He continued to work, jerking it, then twisting further and stopping for periodic kicks.

It was working.

The bar was coming loose. He stepped back and aimed a good kick at it. A shock travelled up his leg but he kicked again, then returned to twisting and wrenching the iron. He soon worked up a sweat, removing his cloak and continuing until the bar gave a powdery snap at the base.

“Perfect.” Almost too easy – that was the beauty of old cells. There was always a weak point.

He retrieved his cloak and squeezed between the wall and remaining bar before creeping toward the faint suggestion of the door. He ran his hands along the wood but the handle would not budge. If he waited for someone to feed him he could escape but until then he was still trapped. Could he try wake his fellow prisoner? Break them out and ask for help?

Light bloomed beneath the door.

He fell back but the door was already being unbolted. It swung open and lamplight blinded him even as he shielded his eyes.

A woman’s voice spoke, a hint of surprise within. “There you are. Quickly, come with me.”

Chapter 2.

“I am Julesa, Lord Firmita’s daughter.”

He blinked as she lowered the light. The fine features of her face were creased with impatience, her dark eyes seeming to absorb the light. Her black hair had been pulled into a bun and a single silver clip adorned her head. She waved a bejewelled hand from her long-sleeved white robes. “We must hurry.”

“I agree but I have to ask why you’re here to... rescue me?”

“That window is shrinking with every wasted moment. Follow me.” She strode from the room.

Not unlike her father, was Julesa. Never leapt after her, catching up to the light and matching her stride. “What’s your plan?” he asked.

“For you to be silent while I get you out of here.”

“Wonderful. How assuring.”

Julesa did not answer. Instead, she paused before a wall and depressed a hidden switch – possibly with her foot, since he did not see her hands move. A panel slid open and she stepped in then glared at him. “I told you, we need to hurry.”

“I might like to take a look around first,” he said. There was still a chance he might find a map or some other hint before escaping. After all, he’d already gone through the trouble that came with being captured and divested of his knives, the least he could do was discover whatever secrets lay within the manor.

“Are you a fool? Father will have you hung if he realises you’ve escaped.”

“Everyone dies from something.”

She hooked the lamp on the wall and lifted something free, levelling it at him.

Crossbow.

Never winced as he raised his hands. Vadiya make, and in good order too, if the way the limbs gleamed was any indication of its condition. She held it like she knew how to shoot.

“Would you like to choke on a bolt?”

“Only if you don’t have anything softer.”

“Enough playing the fool. If you made that forgery, you must have some brains at least. Use them now.”

He folded his arms. “Then convince me or shoot me, dear lady.”

“I’m breaking you out to send you to the city. I need you to stop something happening. If you agree, I’ll take you beyond the wall. If not, I’ll simply shoot you now.”

Never grunted. Killing seemed to be everyone’s favourite answer to any problem around the Firmita manor. “What do I stop?”

“An attempted robbery – Father is transferring some of his rarer pieces to loan to the Imperial Gallery.”

“A thief to catch a thief?”

“Indeed.”

“And you know all this how?”

Her eyes flashed. “That does not matter – you will take my word or die.”

“Difficult choice. Can you guess what I’m thinking?”

“Of course – what’s to stop you simply agreeing now, escaping and washing your hands of the matter? You could easily disappear.”

“You know your scoundrels,” he said.

She laughed; a cold sound. “I do.” From her belt she lifted a pouch and hefted it. The clink of coin followed. “Isn’t this what you live for?”

“I do enjoy gold.”

“Then if we have an arrangement, follow me.”

He trailed the glow of her lamp into the passage and down a stair before entering a cellar. Crates of figs and pears were stacked along the walls, casting looming shadows. Julesa paused by a pair of barrels and gestured to them with the lamp. “Make yourself useful.”

“Lucky for you I’m so good-natured,” he said as he strode forward to wrestle first one, then the other barrel aside. Beneath waited a trapdoor, which he lifted. Steel rungs descended into darkness. He stepped aside. “Lead on.”

Lady Julesa started the descent and Never kept within range, a chill rising from below.

He stepped into a rough-hewn passage where damp seeped through the walls. Did the passage run beside the manor’s well? Julesa walked on without comment until they reached another ladder.

“We’re beyond the walls now. The tunnel opens into a small stand of trees,” Julesa said. She climbed swiftly now and at the top, doused the lamp before opening a hatch to the warm night air. Never climbed out after and crouched within the trees.

The manor’s yellow glow rose over nearby walls, but no guard walked the parapet and no sound of alarm leapt out into the night. Julesa was already counting out coins, which she tucked into an inner pocket in her robe. The purse, now well over half-empty at a guess, she tossed to his feet. “You get the rest when you stop the theft.”

“That occurs when?”

“Three nights hence,” she said. “They will attack a covered wagon at midnight, before it enters the palace from the artisan’s gate – do you know it?”

“I do. How many?”

“A team of five – I trust that in addition to the gold I have given you, you have resources of your own you might call upon?”

“Enough.”

“Good. I will be watching,” she said, then removed two knives and threw them too, to the dirt, before starting back down the ladder.

“How much are they worth?” Never asked. He had to – she’d expect it; and more, he couldn’t fight a touch of curiosity.

“A great deal.” Her voice echoed.

He closed the trap door with a snort and scooped up the knives – one of which was his own, the bone inlay a giveaway – and the purse. Only a single piece of gold within when he tilted it to the moonlight where it fell between the leaves. Not a king’s ransom but better than a crossbow bolt to the face.

Never started toward the road where it cut a pale line through the gently stirring grasses, east toward the capital. At first, he passed no-one on the road, which suited him well. The hush and the steady thud of his boots on the dirt was company enough.

His plan had failed but new opportunities were afoot in the... uncharitable motives of others, often one of the best places to look when it came to finding opportunity. For Julesa’s offer did seem rather fraught with risk.

No doubt she herself was behind the plan to rob her father.

During the robbery, the ‘true thief’ would be killed but the relics would not be recovered, nor would Julesa herself. It would be hinted that the thief had done away with her somehow and all eyes would turn on the corpse and not the shadows where she – and whoever was helping her – were quietly slipping away.

And who better to be the ‘true thief’ than Never – a man who’d recently attempted to dupe the Lord himself, and who had escaped.

It was a clever plan – just not clever enough.

Tomorrow, once he reached Isacina, there would be time to decide just how to deal with Julesa. If at all. He frowned up at the moon. Of course, there was still a chance those relics could tell him something, especially if the map he sought was there.

And didn’t it have to be? Quisoan relics, especially pre-Empire pieces, were indeed among the rarest.

Never chuckled. “Opportunity indeed.”

He walked until the moon disappeared and only a whisper of starlight remained above, at which point he left the road and sought a depression, resting with his cloak for a pillow.

A few hours’ sleep would be enough. His limbs grew heavy now that he’d stopped, and when he closed his eyes, echoes of Julesa’s face swam before him, sometimes smiling, smug and haughty, sometimes weeping, her eyes wide.

*

The sun beat upon his face when he woke, throat dry and sweat already forming.

He stood with a grunt, shaking out his cloak, sending grass seeds flying across the plain. Before him, the golden crops of Marlosa’s central lands spread in a shimmering haze, Folhan Mountains a dark shadow looming beyond. At its feet, hidden yet, lay Isacina – the white city and the seat of Empress Crisina’s power.

Isacina, where all manner of folk from the Empire and lands beyond brought their wares or sought their fortunes... or, sought other people’s fortunes. Despite the diligence of the Imperial Guard, there was a sophisticated criminal world within the city. A world Never had brushed up against enough times to wonder whether Julesa had help from the Brotherhood.

A wagon crunched along the road, dust clinging to its sides. A farmer taking his wares to the city? Never jogged after. If the Brotherhood was involved, he’d keep them out of the way somehow. Right now, a ride would be welcome.

And water.

“Greetings!” Never called, waving to the driver.

The farmer lifted his straw hat and raised an eyebrow but didn’t slow his old grey. “Morning.”

Never kept pace. “Are you heading to the city by chance?”

“Near enough. Collecting another load of pears from the Walija farm.”

“Wonderful – would you be willing to take me so far?”

“Might do.” He wiped his brow. “So long as you don’t mind keeping quiet – I’m not much one for talk.”

“Understood.” Never climbed up beside the man and leant back against the wooden seat. The crops rolled by with only the wagon’s wheels crunching on the road and the occasional snort from the horse.

Eventually, the farmer took a drink from a flask. He offered it to Never, who drank. Sweet, still-cool water. “Thank you.”

Around noon, a trio of crows burst from the fields when a horse galloped down an intersecting road, this curving around toward the imperial city. When they reached the crossroads, the farmer pulled his horse to a halt. “Here’s your stop.”

Never hopped down. “Thanks again.”

The wagon drove on and Never turned after the horse. The walls of the city were within sight now; pale monsters looming above. More horses and caravans passed him, dust covering their hems or wheels and many of the people with songs on their lips – mostly those young ones in small groups, dressed in their best clothes as they trekked to see the capital and its wonders. Caravan guards with their mismatched armour and unshaven faces did not smile as much, but there was always another job.

At a crest, Never paused, leaving the road to remove his cloak and stow it in his pack. It didn’t make a huge difference, but it was enough to ease sweat as the sun grew more oppressive. The flow of people, their voices filling the blue sky, passed on, sliding down toward the huge stone gates that had been flung open to welcome all visitors.

Those that first built the city – three brothers, hired by on old king if he remembered correctly – knew how it would dominate the view from the crest, as it likely did from the other roads flowing into Isacina.

White and grey stone set in layers, climbed to the sky. First the forty-foot wall, and then beyond it, the circular towers of the palace and the great winged spire of Pacela’s temple, taller even than the palace and its glittering domes. Glass flashed in the tiny windows that climbed the spire and dotted the white wings. A beautiful view, if one was lucky enough to climb it.

Finally, the ancient Twin Oaks of Ashina – the green tips of their leaves standing like spears over the walls just beyond the gate. Planted by the Goddess of Spring herself, or so the legend claimed. Maybe it was true; he hadn’t seen oaks of such majesty anywhere else.

Never re-joined the flow of traffic, passing a pair of young men discussing the wonders of the Pink Rose. They obviously had no idea what the girls of the Rose were willing to do, but the staff would soon set them straight if the lads even worked up the nerve to approach the gilded gate.

A merchant in a fine coat lectured an apprentice or son on the value of grain and its role in Marlosa’s economy, and the thunder of hooves announced a squad of Imperial Guard, their breastplates bright in the sun. The riders’ white cloaks snapped as they passed, the emblazoned red stallions appearing to rear up. The crowd parted for them as they returned to the city. Some folk knelt in deference and others grumbled as they were forced to tread through the ditches.

Progress slowed. Ahead, the crowd squeezed through the gates and Never frowned as he waited. Nearby, a bald man shook his head. “Can’t they build a second entry already?”

Never offered no response. A shout of frustration – a young voice – rose from before the walls. Laughter swelled in the crowd. The cry of annoyance changed to a yelp of pain. Never frowned as he skirted the edge of the crowd.

Two boys – not quite men – were shoving at a shorter lad dressed in a motley of yellow, red and green, with tassels on his sleeves and huge ivory buttons on his coat. His eyes blazed with fury and a raised red mark already marred his cheek. He was reaching for a rag doll held by one of the older boys, raised high, out of reach.

Whenever the younger neared, one bully would toss the doll to the other then cuff the short lad across the head when he turned to follow the doll.

The crowd still laughed and jeered, but a few muttered darkly to themselves.

The lad was beginning to grow desperate, fists shaking.

Never strode forward and kicked one of the young thugs to the dirt. “Greetings,” Never said.

The bully shot to his knees, his expression one of outrage. He spat dirt as he lifted a quivering finger, his narrow features twisted. “What do you think you’re doing, old man?”

The motley boy and the one holding the doll had frozen, mouths agape.

Never grinned. “I’m not that old, son. Now, how about you give up your game and go get drunk until you vomit a river in a nice, cool alley somewhere? Or would you rather I gave you a real thrashing – that includes your bovine-faced friend, too.”

The lad pushed from knees to feet. “What did you call him?”

“It’s a peculiar word, isn’t it? It means he looks like a cow, which I think is better than you; cows are placid and I have to admit, you look a little like a rat to me.” Never kept his voice pleasant.

“You’re going to regret saying that.” Rat charged, Cow a moment behind.

Never leapt to meet them.

The move caught both off guard. Never ducked under a wild swing from Rat and drove his fist into the lad’s ribs. The young man collapsed with a whoosh of air as Never then twisted away from Cow’s knife thrust.

Never snapped his hand over Cow’s wrist and spun the boy around, jerking his arm up behind his back until it popped from its socket. Cow screamed. Never dumped him to the dirt, kicking the knife away. Rat was still groaning.

Never glanced to those nearest in the crowd, who had fallen largely silent, many with faces turned away. Perhaps for the best, and he was lucky. If blood had been shed and his curse broken loose, he didn’t fancy being chased down to the chanting of the words ‘freak’ or ‘monster’.

“Obviously I won’t be able to do this sort of thing for everyone,” Never said. “So please, don’t get any ideas now.” He turned to the boy in the strange clothing, who was retrieving his doll. “Are you well?”

A nod.

Shouts for order broke through the crowd and half a dozen Imperial Guard shouldered their way from the gates. Swiftly, they encircled Never and the young men, spears and swords in hand. The leader, a captain by the sharp, hooved insignia on his cloak, folded his arms.

“Surrender your weapons at once – you are each to be imprisoned for brawling.”

Never sighed.

The price of helping others.

Chapter 3.

Never stared up into the branches of one of Ashina’s giant oaks, the lawn soft beneath his feet as he waited for transfer to the nearest prison. People detoured around both he and the colourfully-dressed boy – tied together, and ringed by steel. The bullies and their own guard were stationed nearby but had little to say.

No surprise there.

Red-breasted robins flitted amongst the branches, their chirping adding to the hushed sounds of awe from visitors gathered around the mighty trunk, its bark gnarled with age. A peace had washed over him, the way it always did when he stood beneath the tree; and it had been a long time – not since he and Zia spoke here last.

“Thank you, sir, for what you did back there.”

The boy looked up at him.

Never offered a brief smile. “Well, I can’t say it’s worked out very well for either of us but at least you’ve got your puppet back.” Now that he was close enough, the ragdoll bore more the look of something crafted. It was a hand-puppet and its face was carven bone, a grinning imp, skin tinted blue.

“It was my father’s,” he said, round face darkening. “I cannot afford to lose it; it is my livelihood.”

“You’re a jester?” Jesters were rare – not something the Empress seemed to care for, but the old kings were said to have used them.

The lad shook his head. “No. And nor will I be, it seems. My father was jester to King Yecapla but now that he has died and the Imperial Minister has taken over, there is no call for someone like me.”

“Sorry to hear it, lad,” Never said. Yecapla’s dominion was one of several smaller kingdoms once covering Marlosa and the surrounding islands. After being unified, many kings held their titles but became no more than governors bowing to the line of the Empress – Ramakki differed in that when the line of its king died, an Imperial Minister took control.

“My name is Temilo,” he said. “I thought maybe I could find work as a performer in an inn here but I hadn’t even entered the city when those two started.”

New guards marched up to their group and Never found himself passed into their hands, and then the new men were dragging them up a street, Temilo stumbling after. Two and three storey buildings – mostly inns or shops, their white stone striped in yellow or red – blocked both the sun and palace, but Never caught glimpses of Pacela’s Spire as they crossed the cobblestones of an intersection.

Wisely, the guard took them along quieter streets and eventually into one of the smaller jails. Cool within, the building was little more than a squat box with barred windows. There were perhaps a dozen cells in all, most occupied by drunks and youth with the ragged look of pickpockets.

Two jailors sat at a desk spread with playing stones, the small piles roughly even. They stood when Never was pushed forward.

“Hold them until morning,” one of the Imperial Guardsmen said.

“Will do.” The first jailor herded Never and Temilo into one of the empty cells while the second continued to speak with the guard. Never rubbed his neck as the cell clanged shut – how unpleasant that such a sound was familiar.

Never sat on one of the cots, leaning his head back against the stone.

His stomach rumbled.

Temilo, who’d been examining his puppet for damage, glanced over at him from his own cot. Never grinned. He rose and approached the bars. “I don’t suppose you feed us, do you?” he called to the men, who’d resumed their game.

“No,” one snapped without turning his head.

Laughter from the other cells.

Never returned to his cot. Nothing to do except wait for morning. He lay across the bed and stared up at the ceiling; a piece of stone had been repaired in the distant past, the mortar set in the rough shape of a hammer.

Temilo leant forward on his cot. “Sir, might I ask your name?”

“It’s Never.”

“Never? Forgive me for saying, but that’s a strange name.”

“I agree.”

“And are you a travelling warrior?”

Never gave a soft chuckle. “I’m travelling, but I usually try to stay away from fighting.”

“I’m not sure I understand, but I’m glad you were travelling today.”

Never sat up again. “Tell me about your puppet. I don’t recognise the design. It doesn’t appear Ramakki.”

Temilo smiled as he held up the hand puppet. “See the eyebrows, how thin they are? Father said that it is from the old line of Ramakki Kings but the peaked hair comes from the islands north. The blue skin is for the Ramakki God of Truth.”

“And does he bear a name?”

“Sorga. It means ‘truth-speaker’ in the Ramakki language.”

“A risk-laden business, the truth.”

“It is,” Temilo said softly. He placed the puppet within one of his pouches and took out a piece of string, which he wove into a pattern around his fingers. Temilo fell silent as he worked on the patterns and Never lay back again; no need to bother the lad.

He dozed until evening, when he woke to a dark cell. Temilo was asleep and when he moved to the bars, new guards sat beneath the lamp. Never called softly. Tomorrow would soon be upon him and it wouldn’t hurt to learn a few things to prepare – one of which was decent accommodation – and now that the empire had generously donated a bed, four walls and a roof, he might be able to afford one of the nicer inns long enough to interrupt Julesa’s heist.

One of the jailors groaned then hauled himself out of his seat.

“What is it?” he asked when he came to a halt outside the cell. His eyes held a look of weariness, but he seemed more fit than some of the jailors Never had encountered.

“What does a room at the Water Petal cost a man nowadays?” Never asked.

“Think you could afford it?” The jailor said with a raised eyebrow.

Never palmed a gold coin, then spun it across his knuckles. “Once I’m out of this delightful place I intend to find out. You might be able to save me some time.”

A grunt. “That’ll only last you two nights.”

“And that’s all I need, thank you,” Never said, repressing a sigh. Prices had jumped somewhat since he’d last stayed there.

“You don’t look like the usual sort we get in here,” the guard said, his curiosity apparently stirred. “You don’t even stink of wine.”

“Not much of a compliment but I’ll take it,” Never said with a grin.

“So, what’s your story?”

“I’m trying to set up my nephew with work and I thought the Petal might be looking for entertainment.”

“The Ramakki boy?” the guard’s expression was sceptical.

“He’s a jester. And he’s older than he seems.”

“Then do right by him when we let you out of here,” the man said before turning back for his game.

Never sought his bed once more and lay back, closing his eyes to the darkness. Getting a decent rest wouldn’t hurt... yet he couldn’t help shifting on the cot. Some uncertainty lay ahead. Would Vento still work at the Petal? It had been years now. The man would remember him – saving someone’s life made that rather a given – but that didn’t mean the innkeeper would necessarily be willing to share the information Never would need.

After all, his livelihood depended on the thieves patronising his business; he couldn’t simply give up whatever information Never asked. Still, meetings might be arranged.

But not until tomorrow – and a long tomorrow it would likely be.

Chapter 4.

Never paused before The Water Petal, standing in the shade of a fruit vendor as a pair of white-cloaked Imperial Guard half-pushed, half-carried a limping beggar out of sight. The woman’s face had been a little smudged with dirt but her clothes were cleaner than many – and she’d had a pleasant enough voice that she hadn’t used to badger passers-by.

The city’s blasted vanity was growing worse if they were moving beggars along.

He’d left Temilo before the jail, directing the lad toward the old guild of performers with wishes for luck, and while the boy’s face had not grown much more confident, he did walk with more of a spring in his step.

“If you aren’t planning on buying something, go away, will you?” a voice demanded. A small man with a pinched face waved a hand at Never from behind the counter of the fruit stall. “You’re bothering my customers.”

This early, few people were about.

“Very sorry,” Never said, and spun to walk away, knocking peaches to the ground as he did. Cries of outrage followed but he ascended the steps before the inn without looking back. The Water Petal offered a broad roof of canvas, sheltering its open doors from the sun. A painted sign revealed a lily pad floating in a pond, and the words ‘Welcome Wayfarer’ were written boldly.

Instructions for sweeping and other chores – someone wanted the windows cleaned too – echoed from inside. Was it Vento’s voice?

Within, Never bypassed rows of tables and chairs with their floating candles in central bowls, each dark now, to approach the long bar where two figures spoke. One was a young woman in an apron. “She never does any real work around here, you need to –” She lowered the cloth she’d been waving when she noticed Never.

“We’re not yet open, my good fellow,” the barman said, then paused to squint. “Never? I can hardly believe it.” There was more white in the man’s dark hair than when Never last saw him, but it was Vento – his crooked nose and rough voice unchanged.

“I missed your nose,” Never said as he took the man’s hand. “Who is your lovely assistant?” he asked.

“Serni,” the woman replied with a raised eyebrow. “And part-owner is more like it. Are you here for work then?”

“For help, actually,” he grinned.

Vento laughed. “That’s no surprise. Serni, would you wake Lina and have her bring us something to break the morning’s fast?”

“Only if you agree to talk to her – give her a piece of your mind for a change.”

Vento sighed but nodded before waving Never around the bar where they took a door into a corridor lined with more doors. Vento passed them all, turning to an alcove where a heavy, oaken door with an ornate lock waited.

“This looks new,” Never said.

“It is – I wanted more room.” He produced a key and admitted them, gesturing for Never to take a table beside an open window. It looked out to a walled garden, shadows cast by tall trees.

The scent of fresh-cut flowers lay heavy across the room, which was dominated by a large painting of Pacela. Never studied it while Vento rummaged around, removing a stack of books from a chair. In the painting, a beautiful woman rose from a field of grain, her golden robe matching that of the field, blonde hair flowing as if in a breeze. The Goddess, watching over the land.

“Here, take this,” Vento said as he placed the chair at the table and sat across from it. Never joined him as the man continued. “You look like you’ve travelled around the world twice.”

Never shrugged. “Maybe just the once. I spent a lot of time in Vadiya, dancing with Steelhawks.”

“Your search?”

“Right.”

“And that’s what you’re here about? You think I can help you?”

“I do. You hear things, Vento – you’d know if anyone was planning to steal something really valuable. Like ancient relics visiting from Lord Firmita’s estate? I think I’d like to get a look before that happens.”

Vento grinned. “I haven’t heard anything like that. But if you want to speak to someone who might, I can see if they’ll meet. It’d take a few hours.”

“How about I go for a stroll around the markets?”

“Then I’ll arrange it. And if you want a room, you should know I’ve raised my prices.”

Never sighed. “I’ve heard.”

Vento barked a laugh, slapping Never on the shoulder as he stood. “Come, let’s go see about breakfast.”

*

After a hot meal of spiced eggs, Never walked one of the markets while waiting for noon – when he would meet with Vento’s contact in the thieves’ guild. The sun beat down, baking the dust of old stones. The small amount of shade offered by a vendor’s canvas was usually filled with people, and being pressed between sweating, arguing folk wasn’t his idea of respite.

Still, he purchased replacement knives with some of the money left over from Vento’s fee and glanced over other wares too. Little tempted him and he found himself gradually growing aware of the weight of eyes upon his back.

Someone watched him.

Pausing beside a weaver’s stall, he knelt as if checking on his boots and glanced around the market. People in white robes with slashes of yellow and red or sometimes blue... mostly Marlosi folk, but enough pale-skinned Hanik from the eastern forests to stand out too. Yet no-one appeared to be paying him any special attention.

Old foes perhaps. His last visit to Isacina had left a few people rather unhappy, but enough to be watching for him now? Merely a day since his return? It was a big city – the Water Petal was barely beyond Ashina’s trees, and he’d not come close to the Singing Quarter where there had been a misunderstanding with the bard, nor the warehouses where Never had nearly lost complete control of his blood during a nasty knife fight.

But by noon he’d learnt nothing and headed back to the Petal to wait for Vento’s man.

The common room was crowded but a table had been saved. He took an empty seat and ordered ale. While he waited, he toyed with one of his new knives, testing the weight and balance. Without them, he often felt naked, exposed. Was it odd that instruments of death offered him such comfort? Why not? His blood was cursed, after all.

Conversations drifted to his table; boasting, arguing, murmurs of the Empress finally choosing a consort. Nearby, a pair of men spoke softly, excitement tightening their voices.

“No. It’s not how to get to the Amber Isle, I know that. It’s where to go once you’re inside,” one man said.

Never tilted his head slightly. The Amber Isle? A treasure-hunter’s myth according to most – but if it truly existed it too might hold ancient secrets. Gods knew he’d tried to chase down all the others. Many had searched and few returned from the Isle but all agreed it was an old legend even before the first War of Dust, two hundred years past.

The other man scoffed. “Think you’re going to find the Sea King’s jewels, do you?”

“No, we are,” the man said. “I’ve been to the Grey Chain, there’s a way to the Isle. As I said, all we have to do is find the map.”

“If it exists.”

“It does – I heard it from Neosi. He used to work in the palace library before he tried to double-cross the Brotherhood.”

“Neosi you say?” The second man paused. “Now that changes things. He was sure about what he saw?”

“Of course.”

“Any ideas about how we’ll break in?”

The first man lowered his voice, glancing over his shoulder. Never continued to toy with his blade, as if unconcerned by his surroundings. The fellow grunted. “Not here. Meet me at the palace tonight, I’ll show you.”

The two stood and left. Never exhaled softly.

Another clue or a fool’s path?

Serni appeared, holding his ale. She placed it on the table and sat across from him with a smile. “Well?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I admit you are more pleasant-looking company than I was expecting.”

“You’re only half right, Never. I’ll pass on your request – the guild remembers you and your... unfortunate affliction.”

Of course; they’d remember his curse well. Never grinned. “It’s not catching.”

“Nonetheless, let’s hear what you’re looking for and what you’re offering.”

“Fair enough.” He outlined Julesa’s ‘fear’ about her father’s relics and paused to drink. “So you can understand I’d like to know if the Cofradia has any stake in the heist – as that would change how I approach the situation.”

“And your offer?”

“A generous cut of the reward for its return perhaps. Say, two thirds.”

Senri gave him an appraising look. “Two thirds? What are you playing at?”

“Information.”

“Ah. You think these relics can tell you something about your curse.”

“Believe me, the money is not important. Take four fifths, I care little.”

She folded her arms. “All this is dependent upon there actually being a reward for their return. That is nothing you can guarantee, so we will have to decline.”

“It’s ‘we’ now, is it?” he asked.

She didn’t address his question. “Offer something else.”

Never drummed his fingers on the tabletop. Quite the request. What could he offer? All he possessed was his years, cursed blood, his clothes and a few knives. “Little, as you might imagine.”

“What of your skills?”

“Such as?”

“Death,” Serni said. She leant forward. “The ones assisting Lady Julesa seek to establish a base here in Isacina, and the Brotherhood would be happy to help if you were willing to disrupt those plans.”

“Surely they don’t need my help with such a thing?”

“Of course, we could drive them out but the Marlosi and Quisoan relics change everything – we hardly wish for royal attention. And more, why do the dirty work if someone else will do it for you?”

“I see. You have an arrangement with Firmita and cannot publically be seen to break it. Hence my services.”

“Aren’t you clever.”

Never leant back in his chair and waved a hand. “Very well. Tell me about Julesa’s friends. How many, how organised? Where and when will the attempted theft happen? I might be clever but I’m not fond of surprises.”

Chapter 5.

Never crouched in the depths of shadow on a rooftop, his breathing even as he listened. A wagon rattled on the street below, nearing the artisan’s gate. The gate’s carved panels showed men and women at work building Pacela’s Spire. Midnight cast a silvery-blue tint across the carvings and the square but it was the buildings opposite he studied.

The attack would come from within. Five men, as Julesa claimed, would rush the wagon before the gate opened – which it wouldn’t, seeing as the guards had been paid to keep it closed.

All this Never knew, but still he fought the rush of adrenaline.

His own plan relied on some delicate timing of its own.

He glanced beyond the gates. Hints of the palace itself, overlooking the city from its hill, were shadowy in the night. Its towers dominated the skyline even though few lights glowed from its rows of windows. The scale of it always offered a little thrill – so many rooms. No doubt it took an army of servants to run.

The unpainted wagon finally rolled into the square. Two men only sat at the driver’s seat, a covered crate behind them. “Luck be with you, men,” Never whispered. He slipped along the roof and swiftly descended his rope, then ducked into the recess of a doorway. Movement across the square caught his eye. A glint of moonlight on steel.

The driver leapt down with a grunt, sword swinging at his belt as he approached the heavy gate and rapped upon the door with the knocker. The sound echoed across the night but no-one answered. He knocked again.

Feet thundered across the square as men charged from the shadows.

Never swore – ten men, not five!

Had he been betrayed?

Not now.

Odds had to be evened. And quickly. The curse... there was a chance he could manage it without calling his blood, wasn’t there? The wagon guards were already reacting, moving to protect the relics as two more men burst from cover in the back of the wagon, but even with the two men he’d hired, it still left five to take down ten.

Never charged, knives in hand.

Shouts rose over the clash of steel echoing in the square. Never ran to the first man that had engaged his hidden troops and slashed his knife across the thief’s back, spinning to dodge a blow from another of Julesa’s thieves.

The man sneered as he swung again, and Never danced further back. He feinted and rolled into a crouch, slashing the man’s knee as he passed. The fellow collapsed with a shout. The coppery scent of blood filled the night. Never growled when his own blood stirred within his veins.

No.

On his feet again, he flung a blade at a man who’d raised an axe over his head. It pierced the thief’s side, just beneath the arm. Never didn’t see him fall – he was already running for another struggle, a new knife in hand.

A loud snap rang out.

Pain tore into his forearm. Blood sprayed as he stumbled several steps. He clamped a hand over the wound as he ducked into a crouch. Something whirred as it passed overhead.

Julesa stood across the square, reloading her crossbow.

Clever bitch.

Never switched course, throwing a dagger as he did. Julesa deflected the blade with her crossbow. But he closed the space before she could reload. He knocked the weapon from her grip with his good hand. She went for her own knife but he backhanded her to the stones, chest heaving.

Julesa’s eyes blazed and blood ran from her mouth.

Fool!

His own blood shot forward in a black stream. Attracted to the crimson, his curse surged, eager. It struck Julesa and drew forth her own lifeblood. She screamed, desperation clear in the wild note. Never jerked his arm back, breaking the stream, but it was too late.

Her own blood continued to pour free as she struggled to stand, reaching her knees before collapsing. Blood pooled around her head as her scream became a cough, then a gurgling sound as she choked.

Never’s stomach twisted as he slammed a hand over his arm.

Too late, too late.

She was dead – nothing could stop the blood. And worse, something of Julesa passed into his own, into him – as it often did with the curse. Her panic wracked his limbs, but more. Memories came unbidden. Julesa and a young man with a shock of blond hair. They laughed and spoke of running away together, of escaping her father and his oppression. An older man next, Marlosi nobility, and her hatred of him was clear – a marriage she did not want.

And so she and her blond lover hatched a plan to steal her father’s artefacts. He knew someone in the city and she knew Firmita’s route –

A cry of despair cut the connection.

Steel clattered to the stones.

Never spun.

The blond-haired man from her memories collapsed beside her, cradling her head. Julesa was still now and her expression offered some hope of peace in death. Or so he wanted to believe. Never met the blond man’s eyes and there was only horror within – somehow worse than judgement.

The sound of fighting had ceased.

The young man choked out a sob and lifted her to walk from the square without a single faltering step.

Death, that was all his curse was good for. How he loathed it! Why had the Gods punished him so? Why? An answer he would not learn, it seemed. Perhaps not ever. Never turned back to the wagon with a heavy tread. Bodies lay around the wagon – most of them appeared to be Julesa’s men. One of the wagon guards lay slumped against a wheel, groaning as he tied off a tourniquet above his thigh. Never tore a strip from his cloak and did the same, covering his wounded arm and pulling the strip tight with his teeth as best he could.

The other driver, Diego, stood with the mercenaries Never had hired. That left six bodies on the stones, meaning at least one man had fled. Perhaps at the sight of Never’s curse. The three standing men approached Never.

Diego spoke first. “I have to thank you, Never. Didn’t believe you about the attack at first, but I’m glad you found us in that bar; we’d be dead otherwise.”

“Happy to see you alive.”

One of the mercenaries grunted, the one with the heavy beard. “Look, that’s all well and good but we need to be paid. And as soon as possible – Imperial Guard will be here soon and I have no intention of sticking around.” He narrowed his eyes. “Nor staying near you, friend, if you understand.”

“I do,” Never said. A common response from those who witnessed the curse in action – at least this man had the courage to follow up on his payment. The other mercenary still had wide eyes and looked away when Never glanced at him. “Let’s open the crates then.”

Diego took an iron bar and popped the lid of the first crate open. He unpacked the first piece; a Marlosi carving from ancient tombs at a guess, and then another, handing it to the bearded mercenary with both hands.

“This is a hunk of stone,” the bearded man said, voice flat.

“No, it’s a rare and valuable headpiece from the tombs in the Didecolla Mountains,” Never replied. “Imperial property, technically. Worth twice its weight in gold. There are at least five people here in Isacina alone who’d take that off your hands, no questions asked. My only advice is that you and Diego sell to different people – you know who to try first,” he told Diego, who nodded.

The other mercenary stepped closer. “Let me see.” He held it up to the moonlight. “It looks real to me, Guena.”

Guena grunted. “And you’d know?”

“My pa used to take me to the museum when I was young. I recognise the old runes.” The second mercenary handed it back to his leader. “We can confirm it later. I don’t want to hang around.”

Gunea pointed at Never. “This better be real, else I’m coming to find you, blood or no.”

“It’s real.”

The mercenaries strode off into the darkened streets, weighed down by their earnings.

Never moved to the second crate while Diego divided up the remaining pieces between himself and the other driver, Juqe. Never took a deep breath. Within could rest another clue, more answers, hope. Please. He set the cold bar against the lid and wedged it in. Nails squeaked on wood as he pried the top free.

He set the bar down and lifted out the first piece.

Another Marlosi relic, a statue of Pacela when she was still believed to possess two faces. The next two pieces were minor religious deities; he placed them with Pacela. “Quickly,” he told himself.

Finally, closer to the bottom, a steel case – was it the piece he was looking for? It had been protected well enough, slid between other pieces and shielded by a wooden frame. Never smashed the lock with the butt of a knife and opened the lid. Carved into a shard of stone, an old map of Quisoa – pre-empire.

Here he would find the true location of the sunken city, and within, knowledge of his ancestors, surely? No links to his Marlosi heritage had borne fruit but Mother had been Quisaon; there had to be something there to explain his curse.

Surely in the sunken city of Quisoa, if no-where else?

Never tilted the stone to the moonlight.

And everything was the same, the same as any other map of the southern empire.

The sunken city did not exist.

It likely existed only in the wild, empty rumours of folklore. Another dead-end. Another trail of clues gone to dust, scattered now. Never gripped the stone until his fingers ached.

Just a shred of hope, by Gods, please.

His shoulders shook but he did not hurl it to the flagstones. Instead, he replaced it and closed his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Somehow, he had to find the strength to start again. Which meant finding another legend and following it as far as he could... like the dozens of times before. And yet, this time, hadn’t defeat left at least a little opportunity in its wake? He spun in the wagon, waving to Diego.

“I need your help.”

The man exchanged a glance with his fellow. “Look, we owe you but like the mercenary said – we aren’t sticking around.”

“I only want you to seal me in this crate then explain to the Imperial Guard what happened – you shouldn’t have much trouble selling your story – just make sure they get this wagon inside. Then you can disappear, like you have to rush back to report this to Firmita.”

“What?” Juqe frowned. “Why would you want to do that?”

“So I can sneak into the palace.”

“You don’t want your share of the relics?” Diego asked.

“Take mine, just get me inside,” Never said.

“Consider it done,” Diego grinned. “Help me hide this stuff first.”

Never carried some of the pieces into the shadows and once finished, climbed into the near-empty crate. Diego replaced the lid, thumping the corners into place. “Won’t be long – I hear a few sets of boots.”

“Good.” Never adjusted his limbs as best he could and waited in the pine-scented darkness.

When the troop of guard paused in the square – spreading out and demanding answers, Never tensed. Would they really buy Diego’s story? It wasn’t a difficult tale to spin...

“You two put down this many alone?” a guardsman asked.

“We already sent two others off to get a healer,” Diego said. “Look, we just want to get back to Firmita and tell him what happened. Maybe it was personal, maybe not. Can you guarantee my Lord’s wares from here?”

“Could be Brotherhood, Captain,” a guardsman called from across the square.

The captain grunted. “Fine. On your way, we’ll get the wagon inside.”

“Maybe I should stay and be sure,” Diego said, his voice affecting concern and just enough distrust to make him sound angry and petty. Never had to give him credit.

“We can manage,” the captain said.

Shouts rose for the gate to open, followed by thumping. Then swearing, until the captain sent a runner. Never shifted, awfully slowly, while he waited. The plan had worked – but it was taking them entirely too long.

Footsteps rushed closer. “Captain Remaso, something’s happening – I can smell smoke.”

A new voice. “There. It’s coming from the eastern wing, it’s a bloody fire!”

The captain swore. “We have to get this inside now. Bande, go wake the city watch and clear the wells.”

More crashing on the gate, as if someone had taken up a piece of stone.

Finally it screeched open and a voice shouted. “By the Burning Graves Below, what is going on?”

“Where have you been?” a voice snapped back.

“Taking my watch, friend. I only heard your hollering by accident, so clam it up, will you?”

“Where’s the gate guards?”

“A fine question.”

Captain Remaso intervened. “Figure it out later – there’s a fire. I want this wagon within, it’s a shipment from Lord Firmita. Everyone is to deal with that fire, understood?”

“Yes, Captain,” the voices chimed.

The horse snorted and finally the wagon rolled forward.

Never flexed his hands – some luck at last, yet he still had to get into the library and find the map to the Amber Isle somehow. Before the thieves from the Water Petal, and before the threat of fire, too.

Although, the chaos would provide good cover – it always did.

Chapter 6.

Never crept along dark corridors, pausing before every intersection, door, or stairwell as he neared the Great Library. Escaping the crate had been easy enough, even without light. The Imperial Guard had rushed off the moment the gates boomed shut behind them, leaving Never to slip through silent marble-floored halls.

Now he slowed at new shouts.

Calls had been drifting across from the opposite end of the palace grounds but they were ordered shouts for action and watchfulness. From a window, he’d seen the red glow from what he estimated were the stables.

But these new cries were filled with shock.

Steel on steel followed.

Never frowned – some of the voices called for more swords, some for reinforcements, for commanding officers, some shouts urged people back into their rooms.

And he hissed when he realised some of the shouting was in the Vadiyem tongue.

What treachery was afoot?

The stairs leading down to the vaults of the library were unattended – instead, two Imperial Guards lay in their own blood. One man’s eyes were rolled back into his head but the other wheezed, his gauntleted hands wrapped around a crossbow bolt.

Never flipped knives into his grip and dashed forward. “Who did this?” he asked.

“They came from nowhere,” the guard managed.

Never hesitated. Either the Vadiya had attacked the palace, attacked Marlosa – or a few Vadiya were after something in the palace or the library. The fire seemed to suggest a diversion – but whatever it was, it was no half-hearted attempt.

He had to leave.

At best, he’d be mistaken for being involved; imprisoned after the attack was dealt with. At worst, he’d be killed by the Vadiya or Imperial Guard in the fighting. Yet he did not budge. Chaos. The best time to sneak in and out unseen. There was a chance he’d stumble across something to make up for his failures – perhaps even a map to guide him within the Amber Isle.

Footsteps thundered up the corridors leading to the library.

Vadiya soldiers – not just regular infantry but Steelhawks, laden with bows, daggers, hand-axes and swords – poured into the hall, their armour catching the torchlight. The leader pointed at Never and one of his fellows reached for a bow.

Never spun down the stair, bursting through the broken doors of the library and skidded into the shelves. They stretched beyond the limits of the lamplight, each like a glowing pool in a world of musty parchment and leather bindings. Only his breathing rasped as he ran deeper. The chance of escape was not in his favour – he couldn’t take on that many Steelhawks, even with the curse. It was useless against them. For the most part their armour protected them from the kind of cuts Never might inflict to use his curse.

Instead, he’d have to hide and wait. Take a chance. Slip out behind them once they spread out. The Great Library was nearly an entire city block in width and length, a dozen men would not find one, if that one were quiet enough.

And Never considered himself quiet indeed.

He controlled his breathing and slowed his steps, crossing into a new row and backtracking enough so as not to lose the exit, where he leant against a giant shelf and strained his ears.

No need; the Vadiya Commander snarled his orders and the Steelhawks split into pairs. Each group took a lamp and ensured one man carried a drawn bow. Never rolled his shoulders; so, they weren’t going to make things easy. Typical.

But just what were they doing in the palace? In Marlosa? It was a question he couldn’t afford to answer, but it nagged him as he slipped between another set of shelves and drifted closer to the exit. It was still several rows distant but he was drawing parallel with the first pair of Steelhawks.

Movement flashed between the shelves.

Two figures ran for the stairs. Steelhawks shouted and arrows snapped – both running figures crashed to the ground. Library attendants or palace folk seeking a hiding place?

“Well, who are they?” the leader snapped as he walked over.

“Not guard, Commander Harstas. They look like thieves.”

Never slowed; the two from the Water Petal?

The commander sighed. “Very well. They are dead, yes?”

“Soon will be.”

“Then spread out, find the other one.”

Never kept still. The Steelhawks resumed their search. Not until the light faded did he move again, approaching the thieves. Neither stirred, one facedown and the other twisted on his side, scroll case gripped in hand.

He knelt beside the man’s outstretched arm and opened his fingers, lifting the case. He twisted the top and let the scroll within slide free. Glancing to the receding figures often, he looked to the map.

A maze of passages was revealed. Skulls marked some corridors; a spoked wheel, another. The scroll was old, frayed at the edges, and its ink fading but he could see enough. Was it truly a path to treasure? It felt right but he couldn’t say why. Something about the scent of age, the flow of the words...

He’d searched every other ancient ruin it seemed, spoken with healers and folk who claimed to know dark magics and it all yielded so little – yet something had placed him in the path of this map. Maybe not the Gods, maybe not fate but he was no fool when it came to following coincidences.

Tucking the scroll into his belt, Never stood.

A shape hurtled toward him.

Vadiya.

Never caught a knife-wielding arm as he hit the stone floor, the man’s weight knocking the breath out of him. But he kept a grip on his attacker’s wrist, reaching for his own blade with a free hand, even as he gasped for air.

The man shouted for help and Never growled.

He drove his head forward, smashing into his attacker’s face. Pain bloomed but he hurled the man aside and found his feet. He skipped away from a grasping hand and then kicked the man before the soldier could get to his knees. The Vadiya clattered back to the stone.

An arrow ricocheted from the wall near his head and Never flinched back.

Men surged forward, drawing near from many sides.

Slow them down!

Never leapt for the nearest shelf and hurled his weight against it.

Wood creaked and the huge shelves began to tilt. Two of the Vadiya closed in and the commander, his red cloak inky black in the dim light, skidded to a halt as Never gave the shelf a solid kick.

Books slid free and the shelf crashed down – but not before the commander used one of his men as leverage, hurling himself back to safety while leaving his subordinate in the path of danger.

The Steelhawk disappeared with a muted cry, crushed beneath huge shelves.

When the wood crashed into the next shelf it knocked that down too, scattering more soldiers. Never cast one of his knives through the clouds of dust and another body clattered to the ground – he’d taken down the fellow with no helm.

Not a bad throw, considering the poor light and dust.

Then he was charging up the stairs.

Once at the top, he ran down the corridor, heading for the nearest stairway. Distance. He needed to lose them first. Then find the quickest path out.

“This way,” someone cried in Vadiya.

Never skidded around a corner; glanced back. Two Steelhawks, closing the distance despite their armour. Bastards trained from birth, why wouldn’t they keep up? He reached for a statue – a heavy brass figurine of a rearing stallion. Then he waited at the edge of the corner.

Feet thundered closer.

Just before the first Steelhawk came into view, he swung the stallion.

A mighty crash filled the corridor, shockwaves travelling up his arms. The second man tripped over his friend. Never dumped the statue and drew a knife, plunging it between the gap in the man’s breastplate and helm.

Blood spurted but Never was already spinning away, batting aside a lunge from the first man, who still lay on the floor, trapped by the weight of the corpse. Never stomped on a grasping wrist and drove his boot into the man’s head.

A crack and the Vadiya was still.

Never paused to exhale; his luck held.

Something hot sliced into his thigh. He blinked at the sudden flow of blood. Another two Steelhawks charged along the corridor, one drawing a second arrow. Never fell back, scrambling to pick up speed. Along another corridor and then up a stairwell, grunting with pain as he slid into a small armoury, complete with a window overlooking the grounds.

Never snatched a halberd from a stand and rammed the butt through the window. Glass shattered. Voices echoed up the stair. Never strode to the top and drew the halberd back and waited. Blood trickled down his leg and his chest heaved.

A Steelhawk appeared.

Never drove the weapon down with a roar. The point pierced the man’s breastplate and cast him back, knocking his fellow down the stair with a hideous crash. Never ran for the window, ignoring the scrapes he earned when he slipped through, gripping the edge of the sill and kicking around for a foothold.

Something firm rested beneath his boot.

In the dark it was impossible to tell what, but it seemed to take his weight. He stepped down and clung to the minor imperfections of the stonework. The edge of a turret was near enough that he could reach across and brace himself between the sharp angles. The strain on his arms and legs was immediate but he worked his way down, passing an ornamental bust of Pacela.

Moving as swiftly as he could, Never soon reached a balcony. Leaping down, he paused to tear another strip from his cloak and bind his leg as best he could. Two wounds now, and blood was seeping through the bandage on his arm as well. He glanced up. A head peered out from the window.

“Down, down,” a voice cried.

Never swore, then kicked in the door to whatever room lay beyond.

West side of the palace – not guest rooms, generally these were reserved for minor nobles. Someone gave a shout from an adjoining room, but Never took advantage of the moonlight streaming through the now open balcony, finding his way to the door. He opened it and paused. When no arrows came he peered out.

Empty corridors. The sound of battle from the left. Imperial Guards were fighting with Vadiya – Harstas’ men or other Steelhawks? Never took the opposite direction, soon coming to a darkened stairwell ahead.

Worth a shot, especially if it got him safely to ground level...

Harstas appeared at the opposite end of the passage. He shouted a Vadiya curse and charged, several of his men in tow.

Never dashed for the stairwell.

Chapter 7.

Inside the stairwell Never half-ran, half-stumbled down. One hand trailed the wall as a guide. At the bottom waited a storeroom, door open and lamplight glowing. Never leapt inside and a robed man jumped, his eyes wide as he looked up from a ledger.

“Who are you?” he stammered as he fell against a crate.

“You must flee,” Never said. “Quickly, is there any way from this room?”

The man dropped his quill. “What is this about?”

Never caught the fellow by the shoulders. “Listen to me now. If you want to live to write another number, tell me. Can we leave this room – not the stairs.”

The man trembled. “Well, yes. I mean, there’s an old access to the aqueducts in with the cold goods but no-one –”

“Show me.”

The man tripped over his own feet as he turned to lead Never into the next room but Never caught him. “Quickly, there are men chasing me.”

The stock-keeper ran for a door and led Never through row after row of fruit crates packed between barrels of water. Near to the rear of the room there rested an iron handle on a hefty-looking hatch in the floor. Never pointed. “That?”

The man edged away. “Yes. It leads into the aqueducts. For cleaning.”

“And it travels beyond the city?”

“Yes.”

Never bent and took a firm grip on the handle. “Don’t be rusted shut,” he told it before heaving. Nothing. He pulled until his arms shook and it started to grind open. He kept the pressure on, using his legs, his whole body to lift, letting it clang open against the stone. Then he stood back and caught his breath, wincing at the way his wounds throbbed – only to be interrupted by the slapping of feet on stone. “No, not that way,” Never cried after the scribe.

The man hollered something.

Never took a few steps after. The fool had already reached the stairs. He started up then screamed... only to come tumbling back down. The cracking of bone echoed in the room and Never flinched.

Harstas followed, flanked by two men. The commander had lost his helm and his pale skin and blond hair were tinted yellow by the lamp. With little more than a sigh of annoyance, Harstas ran the scribe through and wiped his blade on the man’s robe before rising, meeting Never’s gaze.

Never unlocked his clenched jaw. One of his knives was already in hand – he charged and threw, piercing the visor of one Steelhawk. Low on knives, he ripped a small box from a stack and hurled it at the other Steelhawk.

It exploded, spraying peaches everywhere but the man faltered only.

Harstas waved his subordinate forward with a sneer.

Never gave ground to the longer reach, deflecting blows with his remaining knife. He was in trouble. With little room to move, he had to do something. Beyond the soldier before him, Harstas was lifting a bow from his fallen comrade, fitting an arrow to the string.

“You’re finished,” the Steelhawk said.

“Good to know,” Never replied, leaping back. He took advantage of the extra space to whip a cut across the back of his hand. Then he bounced on the balls of his feet, letting the Steelhawk approach.

Before the man could get within range, Never dove forward, sliding between the fellow’s legs. He slapped the stone to halt himself, slashing at the point where his enemy’s greaves were buckled.

Leather snapped and blood flowed – this time Never let it spray forth.

Yet the man still twisted to swing a downward blow. Never rolled. The point of the sword caught his shoulder – and more blood shot forth. The Steelhawk fell back with a gasp of horror. He crashed into the crates, slumping to the floor, blood gushing from his wound and fell still. No memories, no impressions flew between this time, as if the man had died too quickly.

Never found his knees, flicking his wrist to break the flow.

Harstas stood, face drained of colour, bow faltering. His nostrils flared as he trembled. Never pointed a bloody hand at him. “Stay back and I will let you live.”

The Vadiya commander’s jaw worked.

Never backed toward the aqueduct’s entry. Harstas took a single step forward and Never let his blood surge a little; it strained for the still-pumping blood from the Steelhawk but Harstas didn’t know that. The commander flinched.

At the hatch, Never stepped down to the first rung of a ladder.

“Do not follow me.”

He took another step down, the image of Harstas glaring after him the last thing he saw before darkness cloaked him.

*

Time had passed – as it tended to do. How much, he couldn’t know. At times he had to stop and hold the wall to keep the tunnel from swimming, a disconcerting experience in the darkness.

But Harstas had not followed.

Was it fear that kept the man at bay? Never shivered as he splashed along in the darkness. There was still a chance the commander would find him. If he watched the waterways...

Never winced when he stumbled. Dried blood pulled at the wound on his back where his clothing stuck to the skin. Blood still seeped from his thigh and arm, slowly at least. The slice on the back of his hand had already healed – his curse had a strange sense of humour in that way. Or was it cruelty?

A column of light appeared ahead.

He slowed when he reached it, blinking up at a ladder. Grating covered an opening. He climbed, grinding his teeth at the pain. Pushing the grate open, he hauled himself out into a domed room. Warm dawn light poured through glass in a window. The room was empty save for cleaning implements.

When he tried the door it opened to a quiet backstreet near the wall.

Beyond the palace grounds.

Pacela’s Spire cast a long shadow where it shone high above, still distant. Smoke streaked the lightening sky too. Dragging his feet forward, Never reached a corner and leant against a statue of Pacela, his shoulder resting on her slender hips. “Sorry Lady,” he gasped out between breaths.

Smoke still pumped from parts of the palace.

Just how many Vadiya were in there?

Never glanced around empty streets. Empty streets. Was everyone hiding? It was dawn, yet in a city like Isacina, someone was always awake, always working. His mind circled to the logical conclusion – invasion.

The Vadiya had invaded – Gods, why?

It did not matter for now. He had a map that unlocked the secrets of the Amber Isle, a new clue to follow. Maybe it wasn’t much but an odd sense of familiarity was undeniable when he’d looked it over. And after exhausting so many clues he had no choice but to follow. Men had died for the map; he had to follow it. Never stumbled on, heading down toward Ashina’s Oaks. Or, if he couldn’t make it that far, the Water Petal.

His strength flagged before he found the Water Petal but a familiar tailor’s shop appeared at the end of the street. Its sign beckoned to him, a giant, golden needle gleaming in the morning light. By the time he reached it the wound in his back had reopened and his vision was blurring again. He leant against the wall, labouring for air.

A door opened nearby, followed by a gasp and a slam.

“Thanks for the help,” he murmured.

The Water Petal was a mere half-dozen steps across the street yet he couldn’t take the first one. His body ached, the wound on his back throbbed along with his arm and leg and worse, his vision continued to grow less and less reliable.

After all – why would a multi-coloured child be approaching him, eyes wide enough to swallow his face, drawing a wobbling horse after?

“Never?”

It spoke!

“Never, it’s me – Temilo.”

He frowned. Familiar. “The puppet-boy?”

“Yes, the jester. What happened?”

He breathed deeply and his vision began to clear. Temilo’s face was full of concern. “The Vadiya attacked the palace,” Never said.

“They attacked the whole city. Vento says I should flee... but I want to stay.”

“You’re working here?”

“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “As a stable hand for now.”

A shout echoed up the street – Vadiya words. Never twisted. Steelhawks and regular infantry, pointing and demanding he halt. Friends of Harstas?

“You, boy. Stand away from that man,” came the order in accented Marlosi.

They knew.

His heart dragged in his chest; he had no more strength to run. He drew a knife, perhaps he could take at least one of them down.

“Here.” Temilo pressed something into his free hand. Leather – reins. “Flee!”

“You should go, lad.”

“No. You protected me before, at the gates. I owe you a life-debt.”

“They’ll kill you for helping me.”

“Only if they catch me,” Temilo said, and ran for the inn, shedding pieces of coloured clothing as he did. Never took half a step after him but it was too late, the Vadiya had started forward, shouting and waving weapons.

No bows at least.

Still Never hesitated. Would Temilo escape?

The thunder of boots neared. Never swore as he gripped the horse, stepping into the stirrup to fling his other leg over the saddle with the vilest curse he could think of – then he snapped the reins and his mount took off, thumping down the street.

He glanced back once and the Vadiya were receding.

If he could hold onto the horse he might just escape. As he clattered down the cobblestones he ground his teeth. There, the great trees lay ahead now, green canopies towering over the buildings. No Vadiya in sight. Somehow he held onto the horse, despite the pain, and charged through the empty gates, stirring leaves as he did.

Escape.

He didn’t slow until he found himself crossing the plains, where he passed evidence of people who’d already fled the city: discarded pieces of clothing or cooking items, a single shoe, a trampled doll. He finally reined the horse in to rest; it breathed hard and he patted its neck.

He turned back to the city and growled.

Silvery lines of soldiers poured down from the mountains, streaming into the palace like shining serpents. War had come and Marlosa had been caught sleeping. For the people of Isacina, woe and misery was upon them.

Never swore again. Futile words.

Even if he were healthy there was nothing he could do. He turned his mount from the seat of the Empire and north toward the coast and the Grey Chain. At its end waited the Amber Isle, weeks away yet but a tiny glimmer of hope nonetheless.

Never took one more look at the city.

A glimpse of the sun flashing off armour near the gates – Harstas and his men, no doubt.

“Fine, Harstas. Follow me if you can.”

A Note from Ashley

Hi! I hope you enjoyed Never (Prequel to The Amber Isle) and thanks for reading.

I’d like to ask if you could help me out by leaving an honest review of the story at your place of purchase? Long or short, good or bad, it all helps!

If you’d like to keep reading, you can sample The Amber Isle (Book 1 of Never’s adventures) at the link below:

The Amber Isle

Or, my current newsletter sign-up includes a free copy of The Amber Isle, where you’ll also be given first access to preview chapters and pre-release editions of future stories along with other giveaways.

Ashley

Acknowledgements

As ever, I want to thank those who support me most - my wife Brooke, my editor Amanda and all of the Alchemists for their help but also the beta and advance readers too - and certainly Lin Hsiang for another awesome cover and to Vivid Covers for more great title work!

And thank you especially to the readers who have taken Never into their hearts and let me know how much they’re enjoying his story - thank you so much :)

Ashley

About Ashley

Ashley is a poet, novelist and teacher living in Australia. Aside from reading and writing, he loves volleyball, Studio Ghibli and Magnum PI, easily one of the greatest television shows ever made.

You can find him online at Twitter or on his fiction blog, City of Masks. As if that’s not enough, you can also sign up to his newsletter for free books, competitions, giveaways and sneak peeks of forthcoming titles!

Also by Ashley Capes

Fiction

The Fairy Wren

A Whisper of Leaves

Crossings

Somnus and the March Hare

Book of Never

1. The Amber Isle

2. A Forest of Eyes

3. River God

4. The Peaks of Autumn

5. Imperial Towers (forthcoming)

The Bone Mask Trilogy

1. City of Masks

2. The Lost Mask

3. Greatmask (forthcoming)

Poetry

7 Years

old stone: haiku, senryu & haibun/between giants

between giants

orion tips the saucepan

stepping over seasons

pollen and the storm