Rogue's Gambit - Chapter 6
“There’s more than one way to resist the Magisterium.”
When Kaila Dwyn discovered her Gift, everything was taken from her: her father, her home, her faith. Hunted by the very heroes she once worshiped, Kaila had no choice but to join the Elysian. But the power of the Magisterium is absolute, and the ancient enemies of humanity can do little to prevent their inevitable slide towards extinction.
Some still fight. Elysian thieves, hidden amongst the underground of Tah’raus, they find their own small ways to resist. Kaila delights in taking what revenge she can against those who destroyed her life. But it’s not enough—until the crime lord Ambrose Braider hatches a plan to steal the Aegis. It is the most powerful artefact in the Magisterium’s possession. Without it, their hold over the world will crumble. Can Kaila and her ragtag group of friends pull off the heist of the century and steal it back—or will their reckless gamble doom the Elysian rebellion forever?
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Theron never ceased to be amazed by the places you could go with a finely tailored suit and the proper company. Like right now, here he stood atop the grand balcony of the Sanctum, staring out over the squat concrete buildings of Tah’raus, the enormous dome rising at his back. He was even enjoying the most wonderful cocktail—the bartender had called it a Midnight Mirage, and the navy blue concoction had not disappointed with its strangely dark, velvety texture.
Sadly, the company was not half so interesting.
“Isn’t it all so beautiful?” the young woman on his arm gushed, gesturing to the lights of the city below. “Your own estate must seem tiny by comparison.”
She wasn’t wrong—the view at this hour was quite lovely. The Sanctum was the tallest building in the capital, affording them views across the sprawling city and the bay beyond, where the setting sun turned the ocean scarlet. The shimmer of agimet streetlights cast the concrete buildings in shadow and concealed their ugliness, though he didn’t think his admirer would agree with that last part.
She had found him not long after his arrival. The golden collar marked her as a Daughter, so he had the interest of someone high up in the Magisterium at least. She had probably been sent to investigate the new arrival from the Iron Pinnacles. If he was honest, Ambrose had been right to see the opportunity in his old identity. Theron was only irked he hadn’t thought of it sooner for himself.
Sadly, while most noblemen would have swooned to receive just an hours attention from a Daughter, Theron had a far more difficult mountain to climb. The tailor’s underworld contacts claimed the princess would be here tonight—she had been somewhat of a recluse like her brother until recently—but so far he’d seen no sign of her. It made him anxious. A part of their plan relied on the novelty of his presence to catch the woman’s attention, but if she wasn’t here…
His fingers twitched as he felt the familiar hunger creeping over him, like an itch just beneath his skin. His heart beat just a little too hard, and his stomach ached, the need for atar gnawing at his insides. The longer he went without it, the worse the withdrawal would get. He had a single crystal sown into the cuff of his tuxedo as backup, in case everything went to hell. Or at least, that’s what he’d told Ambrose.
In reality, it was so he could draw on it if the pain grew too great. He wore a pair of spectacles, and in the brilliance of the agimet lanterns, he hoped the silver glow would be mistaken for reflected light. It was a risk he would rather avoid, but the temptation was becoming a primal thing now, the desire so great he struggled not to reach for one of the nearby lanterns and just take its power.
It was also getting harder to hide from his companions. Theron could sense Quintin lingering in the shadows, dressed as his personal servant. He knew he should tell the man, but just thinking about the admission filled him with shame and dread, the way they would look at him, the pity and disgust in their eyes…
“Beautiful indeed,” he said, forcing down his fears and turning back to his date. “Though I admit, with the loveliness of tonight’s company, I find myself quite unable to appreciate the view.”
“Oh!”
The compliment took the words right out of his companion’s mouth. Her cheeks flushed bright red and she stood gaping at him. It was gratifying to see. He’d been trying all night to poke a hole in her façade. Though when it came to Daughters, you never could be sure. They were almost as impressive actors as Ambrose himself.
The Daughter belatedly raised a hand to cover her embarrassment. “Master Falkenrath!”
He flashed her a roguish grin. “My apologies, Miss Gardner, if my words are crass. We speak plainly in the Iron Pinnacles.”
“Well, so long as we are speaking plainly.” She placed a hand on his bicep. “Your company is no strain on the eyes either, Master Falkenrath.” This time there was no mistaking the gleam in her eyes.
Theron couldn’t resist a glance in Quintin’s direction. He was laying it on thick with this one, cranking up her curiosity. Hovering in the shadows, the Psionic caught his glance and smirked. They’d discussed their strategy beforehand and decided he would play the mysterious stranger to try and draw out the princess. Of course, that would only work if the girl was actually here.
“Alas,” Theron sighed, abruptly pulling away from the Daughter, “my father has forbidden all distraction while I’m in the capital.”
“Iron Hand himself sent you?” his companion asked. She made no effort to conceal her surprise this time. “Why would he do that?”
Theron grimaced. “I cannot say, Miss Gardner.”
“I can assure you, Master Falkenrath,” she said, taking his hand and looking up at him through long lashes. “Whatever your father has sent you here to do, it will go easier with the aid of a Daughter.”
He bowed his head. “Alas, Miss Gardner, it cannot be so.”
“Please—”
“I fear I’ve already said too much,” he cut her off sharply. “Please, if you would excuse me…”
He walked away before she had a chance to stop him. Several people glanced in their direction. His stomach twisted in sudden anxiety. Turning her down had been imperative—he couldn’t afford his character to be tangled up with another woman—but hopefully the rejection hadn’t been too sharp. The princess was a Daughter as well so he couldn’t afford to get offside with her order.
“That was well done,” Quintin murmured, falling into step with Theron as he neared the bar.
“You don’t think I overdid it?”
Quintin snorted by way of response, then moved to the bar. Theron hung back, allowing his manservant to order his next drink while he surveyed the crowd. The gala was now in full swing, the enormous balcony packed with noblemen and women from across the kingdom. The appearance of both moons in the Fresian sky marked winter’s final swoon. Their twin brilliance made the agimet lanterns mostly unnecessary, especially combined with the braziers set along the edges of the balcony. The vanilla incense they burned kept the scents of the city at bay, while a string quartet covered the general racquet that hung about Tah’raus at all hours of the day.
It didn’t take long for Theron to locate his now-former-admirer. She’d wasted no time finding other Daughters—a group were huddled at the edge of the balcony, heads leaned in close to listen.
Content his story was spreading, Theron averted his eyes before they noticed his attention—and found himself face to face with a man he’d only ever seen in paintings. The man was solidly built, his barrel-chest straining against the buttons of his black tunic, while his wiry beard was unshaved. With his grizzled appearance, he could have been mistaken for a common guard or soldier, if not for the crown that perched atop his greying hair.
“Master Falkenrath,” Alaric Frye, king of Fresia, said, offering his hand. “Welcome to my city. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance—I have had the pleasure of knowing Leonardo for many years.”
A chill ran down Theron’s spine. He stared at the king’s extended hand, in a state of shock. They should have foreseen this—of course his thrice-cursed-father would be on a first name basis with the king. He searched the man’s eyes, seeking some hint of suspicion, but Alaric seemed genuine with his offer of hospitality.
“The pleasure is all mine,” Theron said, taking the offered hand after an extended pause. As he did, he cast a glance in the direction of the bar, but there was no sign of Quintin. He was on his own for now. “My father has always spoken highly of you.”
“I should hope so,” Alaric chuckled. “We fought together in the Brenshield campaign some twenty years ago; saved his behind more times than I can count.”
“I have heard the stories,” Theron said, ignoring the cold sweat that dripped down his back. The need had returned, clawing at his insides like a living thing, but he couldn’t risk drawing on atar in front of this man. “You’ll have to tell me a few of your own sometime,” he added, trying to keep his voice even. “I’m curious to know whether the details match.”
Alaric roared with laughter. “If they don’t, I promise that my version is the correct one.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Theron grinned back while his heart raced. Depending on how they played it, this could be a disaster…or if he was quick on his feet, maybe this could be the connection they needed. “Actually,” Theron added, dropping his voice to a whisper, “I am pleased to see you tonight, Your Majesty. There was a somewhat…delicate matter I wished to discuss with you.”
The king raised one eyebrow. “What’s this?” he quizzed. “Don’t tell me Leonardo has decided to get involved in politics this late in the game?”
Theron wet his lips, attempting to take on a nervous look. “Not so much my father, as myself, Your Majesty.” It might clash a little with the story he’d spread with the Daughters, but knowing the Tah’raus rumour mill, the finer points would be lost anyway by the time any whispers got back to the king.
A second bushy eyebrow joined the first on the king’s forehead. “Well, well, well, that is interesting!” he said quietly. “I had wondered what might have tempted Leonardo’s reclusive son out of hiding. Very good then, Master Falkenrath, I will have my people get in touch with your people. In the meantime, do try to enjoy the joys of the capital. They should be quite the extravagance after Bermish.”
Theron bowed his head. “They are indeed,” he hesitated then, wondering whether to try his luck. “One more thing, Your Majesty. I wondered if the prince and princess might be in attendance tonight? I would very much like to make their acquaintance.”
“My son hasn’t stepped foot in this building in three years,” the king grunted, before pursing his lips. His eyes scanned the crowd, before letting out a sigh. “As for my dear Jenna, I haven’t seen her tonight. She’s probably lurking about somewhere, avoiding the hordes of noblemen clamouring for her favour.
Theron swore softly to himself as the man moved away. Still, if the princess wasn’t present, at least his interaction with the king meant the night wasn’t a complete loss.
“Your drink, sir,” Quintin announced, appearing at Theron’s shoulder and handing him a tall-rimmed glass filled with what could have been liquified emeralds for all Theron knew.
Theron accepted it with a grunt. “What took you so long?” he added. He took a sip and gasped as the spirits burned his throat. “First Matron be blessed, I could have used this before my little chat with the king.”
Quintin wrinkled his brow. “Trouble?”
“Potentially. He knows Iron Hand,” Theron replied. The shaking in his hands eased as he took another sip of the fiery liquor.
“That’s concerning…”
“Or perhaps an opportunity,” Theron replied. “We could use him to make contact with the princess.”
The words did nothing to budge the frown on the Psionic’s face. “I don’t like it. If he knows Iron Hands…”
Theron supressed a sigh. He recognised that look in his friend’s eyes. Quintin couldn’t help but play dad—even years before his girls had arrived, he’d been the one looking out for their crew, making sure they covered their tracks and only used clean agimet—even reminding them to eat when the stress started getting to them.
“Forget about Iron Hands for now,” he replied, “did you learn anything from the other servants about the princess?”
Quintin studied Theron for a heartbeat longer, before exhaling. “She was here, but no one’s seen her for over an hour.” He pursed his lips. “We may have missed her.”
Muttering a curse, Theron considered the news. “The king mentioned she might be lurking somewhere,” he said at last.
“Okay, well, you can’t be seen asking for her. It’ll ruin your mysterious persona. But I can have a hunt around.”
“What am I meant to do in the meantime?”
“Try not to drink too much?” Quintin said, shooting a meaningful look at Theron’s glass—which was almost empty already.
Theron grinned, though inwardly he cursed his own weakness. Quintin eyed him one last time before disappearing into the press of bodies. Assessing the crowd, Theron decided he’d had enough of meaningless banter about court rumours and the weather. Despite Quintin’s warning, he snagged another drink from a passing waiter—this one a red wine no doubt of some great vintage—and returned to the balcony in search of a break in the crowd.
There was only one exit from the dome and most revellers seemed to be gathered around this section of the balcony, but earlier he’d noted it wrapped around the entire circumference of the Sanctum. As he moved around the dome, the racing in his heart slowly subsided, though he still felt the trembling in his hands. He steeled himself against reaching for the hidden crystal. He didn’t need it. He’d lived half his life ignorant of his Gift—he could survive a few hours without the magic flowing in his veins.
Even if it felt like razorblades digging through his flesh.
On the far side of the dome, the crowd thinned, the press of bodies and stench of perfume receding. Leaning against the stone balustrade, he savoured the cool night air.
For Trickster’s sake, what’s wrong with me?
Needles danced across his skin as he finally surrendered to the desire and drew a drop of atar from his crystal. Theron was meant to be the one in control, and here he was, barely able to stop himself from draining his crystal dry. But atar was the only thing that soothed the ache inside. Even with it, he felt like a drowning man sucking air through a reed stalk. It was never quite enough to sate the need the broken crystal had left inside him.
Just concentrate on the job, a little voice whispered in his ear.
The job. He could have laughed. Pain gave him clarity, and this so-called-job was a fool’s errand. The desperate hope of an old man to leave some kind of legacy when he was gone. Not even Ambrose could really hope the legends were true. Another world? He could have laughed.
No, there was only one reason this job was worth the risk—vengeance. Ambrose could dream of other worlds and Quintin of saving this one, but the chance to destroy his father was the only reason Theron had accepted this suicide mission. He felt guilty involving Kaila, but then, who was he to deny the young woman her own chance at vengeance?
“And here I thought I’d escaped the last of the prancing parakeets,” a voice said from behind him. “Tell me, who was it that sold me out? Sister Vera? Or maybe it was one of my ever so lovely fellow Daughters?”
Theron’s skin crawled as the clack of heels announced the speaker’s approach. Atar still burned in his eyes. In this dimly lit section of the balcony, it would be impossible to miss if he turned his head. Panic clawed its way up his throat, screaming for him to draw in the rest of his crystal and flee.
Instead, he exhaled and activated his atarsight. As soullights danced before his eyes, he could see no immediate target through which to thread his power, so he settled for the balcony beneath him. Constructed of solid concrete, it would take far more than the trickle of atar in his veins to shift it—but he could use up what he had trying.
Gritting his teeth, he poured his atar into a thread of his Gift and directed it straight down into the concrete beneath his feet. As the energy left him, he felt a slight trembling beneath his feet, before a sheer pain drove through his skull as his body realised it was without atar once more.
Thankfully, a cry from the young woman covered his own groan—before a weight slammed into him from behind. Instinctively, he grasped his assailant, before realising it was not an attack at all. As the ground shifted, the young woman had lost her footing and tripped.
“First Matron guard us, was that an earthquake?” she muttered, righting herself before turning to Theron. “Are you okay? Sorry, I swear I don’t usually tackle potential suiters I’ve just met. Well, less than ten percent of the time, anyway,” she said the last part with a smile.
Theron hardly heard what she said. He stared at the young woman in his arms. She wore a floor-length black sequin gown with side cutouts that drew the eye to her hips. Auburn hair hung in curls around her shoulders and the golden collar of a Daughter shone proudly around her throat, but that alone was not enough to steal his words.
The princess’s emerald eyes glinted in the moonlight as she reached down and gently removed his hands from around her waist. “I think I’ve found my feet now, thank you, good sir,” she said.
“Sorry,” Theron croaked.
“Ha.” Her eyes danced as she watched him. The moment stretched out, silent other than the distant chattering of the crowd, until finally she inclined her head to the side. “You really weren’t looking for me back here, were you?”
Swallowing, Theron struggled to recover his wits. “Ah…” Where was Quintin when you needed him? “Sorry, I was just…needed a break from the crowd.”
To his surprise, the princess threw back her head and laughed. “And instead you’ve been assaulted by a clumsy princess in high heels. The Nameless works in strange ways at times, does he not?”
“Ah, princess?” Theron asked, deciding it was probably best to continue playing dumb. It wasn’t exactly an act at this stage.
“Jenna Frye,” the young woman said, offering her hand, “and who might you be, Master…”
Finally regaining some of his composure, Theron swooped down to press his lips to her wrist. “Theron Falkenrath,” he murmured as he straightened. “My apologies, Your Highness, I’m new in town and did not recognise you. The portraits truly do not do your beauty justice.” For once, the words were not a lie. Jenna Frye was as stunning a specimen as any he’d encountered.
“Falkenrath,” she murmured, brushing off the compliment. “I didn’t realise Iron Hands had a son?”
“I’m his best kept secret.”
Her eyes seemed to narrow ever so slightly, before a grin appeared on her lips. “Surely we in the capital can’t really be so intimidating to a Falkenrath?”
Theron snorted. “I can tell you with absolute certainty, I’d rather face five Elysian soldiers than spend another minute with that pack of hyenas.”
“Is that so?” This time he thought the princess’s laughter might have been genuine. “And what about me, Master Falkenrath? Do you not find the princess of those hyenas intimidating?”
“I’ll admit, witnessing you tripping over your own feet has sucked some of the fear from the encounter.”
“I swear the ground moved,” she muttered, before leaning against the balustrade with a sigh. “I’ll be honest though, I came back here for the same reason—to escape.”
Theron studied the young woman, weighing his next words. This was his chance—Quintin or no, he couldn’t waste it.
“I would have thought you were used to it?”
The princess snorted. “Used to it? I may not have been so bold as my brother, but I’ve done my best to avoid these engagements like an Elysian plague.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Here I am,” she agreed, flashing him a smile. “At my father’s behest.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed,” the princess replied. Refusing to elaborate any further, she promptly changed the subject. “So, what brings the Iron Hand’s secret son to the capital then? A crisis on our borders? A secret Elysian plot to destroy the heart of our nation?”
This time it was Theron’s turn to chuckle. “Nothing so exciting,” he responded—though she’d jokingly guessed the exact reason he was there. He spread his arms. “I fear I am not a swordsman like my father, so in his wisdom, he has sent me here to represent his interests in the capital.”
The princess arched an eyebrow. “You’re to be a politician then?”
Theron sighed. “Correct.”
“Arg,” she replied, wrinkling her nose like she’d caught a whiff of something foul.
The princess’s reaction was so unexpected, Theron couldn’t help himself—he burst into laughter. “Well, I can safely say that was not the reception I would have expected from the daughter of King Alaric Frye,” he said after recovering from his amusement.
Rolling her eyes, the princess leaned back against the railings—then as if taken by a bout of recklessness, she boosted herself up onto the balustrade. Theron’s heart lodged in his throat as his one shot of pulling off this job perched herself over a four-hundred-foot drop. The princess didn’t seem to think anything of it as she kicked off her heels and grinned at him.
“You seem to have lost some of your colour, Master Falkenrath,” she remarked, showing a mischievous smile. “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your nerve for politics already?”
Theron swallowed. “Can you blame a man for wondering how your father would react if his daughter were to plummet from this balcony while under my supervision?”
The princess inclined her head. “Oh, I’m under your supervision now, am I?” Her eyes never leaving his, she leaned back, auburn hair swirling out over the darkness. “In that case, just how do you plan to keep me safe, Master Falkenrath?”
As his pulse spiked, Theron reacted instinctively, snatching her arm and dragging the princess back from the edge. Her eyes danced as she returned to solid ground, bare feet slapping lightly on the concrete.
“Why Master Falkenrath,” she gasped in mock outrage—or at least, he hoped it was mock outrage. “I could have you flogged for assailing a Daughter of the Magisterium in such a manner.”
The blood still pounding in his ears, Theron just glared at the young woman, until he could maintain the expression no longer and the crack of a smile appeared.
Trickster’s mercy, where did this woman come from?
Chuckling, he released her and dipped into a bow. “What can a humble man do to earn the Daughter’s forgiveness?”
Leaning back, the princess eyed him, lips pursed as though in contemplation. “You’re an interesting one, you know that, Master Falkenrath?”
“How so?”
She shook her head. “Tell me, can you dance? Or did you inherit the Iron Hands reputation for joyless duty?”
Theron could hardly believe his good fortune as he smiled. “I fear it has never been my strong suit, but to earn your forgiveness, I could make an attempt.”
“Very well then, Master Falkenrath,” she said, holding out a hand for him to take. “Then why don’t we—”
She broke off, stiffening as someone behind them cleared their throat.
“Sir?”
Theron turned to find Quintin hovering in the shadows. The Psionic looked torn as he met Theron’s gaze, hesitating just a second longer than was necessary before approaching.
“Sir,” Quintin repeated. “I am sorry to interrupt.”
“Yes, Quintin,” Theron choked out the words. What was the man thinking? “What was it?”
“A message, sir. From Lord Ambrose Braider.”
At his side, Jenna frowned. “Ambrose Braider…as in the tailor?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Quintin hesitated, eyes darting to the princess and then back to Theron. “My apologies, sir, but his messenger said it was urgent. A problem with the ah…the custom suit. He requested your presence at your earliest convenience.”
What the hell?
Theron hid his confusion with a frown. Whatever was going on, it had to be bad—that was a terrible cover story. Stealing himself, he turned to the princess and dipped into a bow.
“My most sincere apologies, princess,” he said, “it seems I will have to owe you that dance?”
The princess frowned at him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She stared for so long he felt himself shift nervously on his feet. Finally though, she snorted. “You are an odd one.” Stepping in close, she lifted herself onto her bare tiptoes and planted a kiss on his check. “Very well though, you may go. I shall hold you to that dance, though,” as she spoke, her eyes took on a stony glint, “or maybe we’ll have to revisit those repercussions we spoke of.”
With that she turned and strode away, that tantalising sequin dress swirling around her thighs as the two men stared after her. Theron had to bite his tongue to keep himself from screaming. Instead, he turned to Quintin with a scowl.
“Whatever it is, Quintin, it better be life or death.”
Taking a glass of wine from the tray of a passing waiter, Jenna Frye studied Theron Falkenrath and his manservant as they spoke beside the balustrade. The son of Iron Hand. He intrigued her, though she still had her doubts about the nature of their encounter. Was he really the inoffensive young man he presented himself as, or was he playing the game like every other intolerable nobleman that had tried to win her hand over the years?
He was certainly different from those puffing jays. She’d tried with them, at least in the early days. She’d been made a Daughter when she was just fifteen—before she’d even taken her Trials—so she’d been forced the learn the game early. But most of the nobles at court were just so boring. Weak, timid men too afraid of putting a foot out of line to ever grasp a little piece of excitement.
Certainly, none of them would have grabbed her off the balustrade! She had not expected that—she’d almost struck him in her surprise. She’d played the same game with a few of the more boring suitors that had pestered her over the years, and it always went one of a few ways. Either they grew increasingly distraught in their demands for her to get down, or they marched off to report her outrageous behaviour to someone with more authority than themselves.
None of them had ever simply taken her down themselves.
For some reason, her cheeks flushed at the memory of it.
Ah, but then what had that been at the end? Despite herself, Jenna found her irritation prickling at the sudden dismissal. She watched as the pair finished their conversation and made their way through the crowd. They seemed to be angling for the exit. Frowning, Jenna slipped through the crowd after them.
What was this newcomer’s game, leaving her high and dry like that? She had offered him a dance with a princess? Any other man in this court would have leapt at the offer. And she hadn’t been bluffing—she could have had the guards beat him bloody for laying hands on her. Her lips twisted, wondering how Theron Falkenrath might react in the face of that threat. Would he submit, or would he retaliate…
She found herself growing flustered picturing those smouldering eyes watching her, daring her to give the order.
The sensation faded as she considered their interaction from another angle—that their encounter had not been coincidence at all. Her father had made it clear she needed to choose a suitor to preserve his legacy—or risk one of her mother’s flunkies ascending. The Matron would like nothing more than to seize control of Fresia’s leadership after his death. Her stomach twisted, but she pushed the thought away. She needed to keep her mind clear, objective.
Theron and his attendant had disappeared inside now. The man himself had admitted he was here at the behest of his father. The Iron Hand was a General of Fresia—and so sworn to her father. Had he sent his son at the king’s request? She sighed. That would be just like her father. She had promised to find a husband by the Summer Gala, but it would be just like him to get involved where his interference was not required.
Or could Theron be a plant, an agent sent by her mother to engage the princess. The Matron had evidently learned about her husband’s illness, because two weeks ago she had sent a Daughter to treat with Rohan. He’d ignored the poor young woman, but another was to dine with him tonight. Her poor brother had no interest in the throne or their parents’ games, but others were sure to follow.
Yes, that was probably it. Her mother was trying to play both sides—ensure she had one hand on the throne whichever of her children ascended. Her heart sank as she thought of Theron Falkenrath and that smile. She had enjoyed their interaction, Jenna realised. It hurt to think it had not been genuine.
Though…there might be one way she could know for sure. The pair had certainly high-tailed it out of the gala after receiving the news from the tailor, but they weren’t familiar with the Sanctum like she was. They would be slowed by the crowds bogging down the main corridors. If Jenna was quick, she could be waiting to follow them when they left through the front gates.
Her fists tightened into tiny balls. Then she could find out who Theron Falkenrath was really meeting.
It had better be a suit maker, or she might have to throw him off the rooftop after all.
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