Their powers spun, sending gusts of wind through the hall.
Kneeling, the captive threw his head back as he strained against his chains toward the ceiling. Their magic swarmed high. He let out a final scream, a plea to the Mousai, as their spell, laced purple, honey gold, and crimson, pumped into his body, streaming endlessly until, finally, his ragged form swallowed it whole. He glowed like a star as the pop, pop, pop of his bones breaking echoed in the hall.
The light pulsing beneath his skin extinguished at the final snap of his spine.
The prisoner crumbled to the ground.
Lifeless.
His soul sent to the Fade.
A terrifying beat of quiet settled over the hall, an echoing loss of the Mousai’s magic, now gone.
A whimper from one of the giftless.
And then—
The chamber erupted in cheers.
The Mousai bowed with regal grace, as though they hadn’t just melted a man from the inside out. In fact, the pirate sensed the energy in the room holding a tinged afterglow of lust.
Even he found himself panting.
At the realization, his intentions sharpened, the fog muddling his mind lifting.
He was not a man prone to wild proclivities. To have nearly forgotten himself sent a wave of uneasiness through him.
Doors at the far end of the hall swung open, and the crowd surged through them, into the postperformance party. But the pirate remained motionless, his gaze on the forgotten body of the prisoner. He studied features that held hints of highborn society before faceless guards came to carry the corpse away.
It was known that the prisoner had been a court member. His rank, in the end, seemed to have done little to save him. It appeared the Thief King only accepted thieves who stole for him, not from him.
A good thing in the end, for this meant a seat had opened up tonight.
But was this the world the pirate truly wanted to be a part of?
Yes, his magic purred.
Yes, he agreed.
The question was how to acquire the necessary power to move more freely in it.
The pirate roamed between the various masks surrounding him, taking in their painted skin and shrouded fashions. The burden of keeping one’s identity hidden here was a chink in one’s armor. There were many secrets locked tight in this palace, in this kingdom, vices not fit for gentle ears and respectable society. But with secrets came the opportunity for leverage. And leverage was what the pirate was determined to gather, for the path to priceless treasure came in many forms.
A reflection caught his eye, the swaying of the dancer’s hips twinkling her onyx beadwork as she wove through the guests. He took in her ample silhouette, her fiery mist of magic radiating with her movements. Like an approaching snake, a plan began to slide into place.
As if sensing a predator, the dancer turned, horned headdress standing tall in the crowd. And though her features were covered, the pirate knew the moment her eyes met his, for a river of hot current smacked into him.
But then she was moving away, disappearing into the shadowed court.
He started toward her, and as he did, his nerves buzzed in anticipation of what he’d do next.
Yesss, his magic cooed in delight at his daring thoughts, we are not cowards like they.
No, he agreed, we are not.
With a sure hand, the pirate removed his mask.
The warmth of the room hugged his already-warm skin. He took a deep breath in, the scent of freedom running sweetly along his taste buds. Those he passed stared with shocked whispers as they took in his features, the first of their potential kind to reveal themselves.
He dutifully ignored them.
His identity would not be his weakness here. Not like all these others who clung to their disguises and false securities.
Let them know me, he thought.
Let my sins follow.
He had already been called a monster. Why not live up to the name?
After all, monsters were needed to make heroes.
And Alōs Ezra would become the kind of monster who made heroes of all.
A considerable time later, years, in fact, when wounds are old scars
CHAPTER ONE
When throwing knives across a crowded tavern in the Thief Kingdom, you were one of two things: an excellent marksman with everything to gain, or a poor marksman with nothing to lose.
Whether you were the former or the latter, you were most certainly a fool.
Niya Bassette happened to admire foolishness.
So it was without great surprise that she let loose a blade straight into the throng of unsuspecting patrons at the exact moment her two sisters did. They whizzed, end over end—one a hair’s length from clipping an ear, another sliding between the fingers of a hand in motion, a third nipping off the glowing end of a cigar—all to stick with a wet thwack into an apple a bartender had been eating on the opposite side of the room.
Had been, of course, being the key words, given his meal now found itself pinned to a column beside him.
“My knife struck first!” exclaimed Niya, her heartbeat giving an extra thrilled thump as she twirled to face her two sisters. “Pay up.”
“I fear your eyesight is going, dear,” said Larkyra, adjusting her pearl disguise. “It is my blade that is in the middle.”
“Yes,” agreed Arabessa, “but it’s clearly my dagger which is deepest pierced, which means—”
“Nothing,” finished Niya, a bubbling of annoyance stirring. “Which means absolutely nothing.”
“Given you are now in my debt for two more silver,” said Arabessa, her brass mask shining in the tavern’s torchlight, “I understand your resistance to agree, but—”
“WHO DARES THROW BLADES AT ME?” bellowed the bartender from behind the bar, interrupting what Niya had expected to be a long-winded standoff.
The tavern drowned in a thick silence; every disguised face in the building swiveled toward the commotion.
“Theys did!” a man in a long-nosed mask shrieked from the opposite side of the room, pointing an accusing finger toward Niya and her sisters. “Theys threw thems at me earlier and put a hole right through me’s hat.”
“Better your hat than your head,” grumbled Niya, eyes narrowed at the informing weasel.
The barman slowly turned their way as the crowd parted like a rip in a stocking.
“Sticks,” muttered Niya.
“You,” growled the man.
For being so large, he jumped over the wide bar with surprising nimbleness. Niya’s eyes traveled up as he straightened to his full height. His figure was that of an overstuffed sausage, his arm muscles had forced the sleeves of his tunic to be cut away so they could swing freely, and his leather mask was one with his tough, wrinkled skin.
“I was really hoping we wouldn’t have to fight our way out of this bar tonight from way back here,” sighed Larkyra.
“Doors are merely one way to leave a room,” pointed out Arabessa as she glanced up through the rafters above.
Niya followed her gaze, finding a skylight letting in the glowworm starry night of the Thief Kingdom’s caved ceiling. “One way indeed,” she agreed with a smile.
“Which of you three wants to be sent to the Fade first?” growled the approaching barman, his heavy footsteps shaking the floorboards.
“Just so we’re clear,” said Arabessa as they backed up in unison, “we were not throwing at you but at your apple.”
“Yes, if you were the target,” added Niya, “you’d most certainly be in the Fade long before us.”
“Not helping,” muttered Larkyra as the man gave a roar, charging forward.
“Time for that exit.” Arabessa took a running leap onto a nearby table, her navy suit gleaming like fresh blood in the candlelight. Those seated scampered back before she jumped and swung herself from a beam up into the rafters.
“But our knives,” protested Niya, glancing past the stampeding man to the glint of her blade still impaled in the bar. “I just stole that one.”
“And you’ll steal many more,” said Larkyra, picking up her skirts and, with all the grace of the duchess she now was, copying Arabessa’s retreat.
The crowd gave a hoot of approval, seeing a flash of her white-legged bloomers.