Now they saw him, and they converged as the attacker raised his weapon above the highest point of the carriage’s vaulted roof and struck. The crack felt loud enough to split the sky in half; wood splintered, hurling shards through the air and leaving a gaping hole. There was no noise from the carriage, and the man’s smile fell away when he looked inside.
I could see his face clearly now—skin red and flushed, his lips an unhappy line. I didn’t recognize him, and I didn’t understand the green glow of Aetheric power in his eyes. He wasn’t doing magic—negotiating it or directing it—and he carried a Terran sword. But magic rose from his body like flames from a burning building.
He was human but filled with Aetheric magic. That must have been the work of the practitioner, but I couldn’t see him in the crowd—or the source of the magic.
With a flicker, he disappeared again. I squinted and could see the faint green haze that spread through the air where he’d disappeared, like a ripple in water. Like he’d dipped a toe into the Aetheric.
That shouldn’t have been possible. Living humans weren’t supposed to be able to travel into the Aetheric. But an Anima could.
“What is it?” a man asked, his voice so close I nearly jumped in surprise. “The attacker?”
Then he took my arm. I looked down at the long, tan fingers, and then up at the person those fingers belonged to.
He was several hands taller than me and wore the uniform of the carriage guards, which fitted around his strong shouldersand muscled arms. His hair was dark and straight and pulled back at the temples, and his skin was suntanned, making his eyes—the dark blue of the sky before a summer storm rolled through—seem to glow with purpose. His brows were long and dark, his nose just a bit wider at the bridge, maybe because of some past fight. His lips were full and deeply curved, but they frowned now. The hand that wasn’t gripping my arm had already pulled a sword, and he looked very prepared to use it.
He was the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. And he was a Lys’Careth henchman who’d kill me where I stood if he believed I was a threat to his master.
I couldn’t help but stare at him despite the danger. He stared back and so we stood together as chaos rose around us—the moment surely no longer than a heartbeat, but time expanding and stretching around us as if to keep us together within its embrace.
Nearby, someone called out a warning. The moment had been brittle, and it shattered.
“The assassin,” he said, his voice deep and insistent and carrying the aristocratic tones of Carethia’s capital, the City of Flowers. “Do you know what’s happening to him?”
I slipped my arm from his grasp. “I think he’s being used by an Aetheric practitioner.”
“Used?”
“He seems to be”—and I wouldn’t have believed it if I had any other reasonable explanation—“possessed by an Anima.” Tales of possession were at least as old as Carethia, or the nations the Emperor Eternal had cobbled together to make it. I hadn’t thought they were true. Not until today.
He stared at me for a heartbeat, as if trying to accustom himself to the idea, while soldiers circled around the carriages, waiting for it to appear again.
“What in Oblivion am I supposed to do with that? And that’s an actual question. I’ll happily entertain suggestions.”
“You’re the one with the sword.”
“Which is little use against an enemy I can’t see.” His voice was dry as Vhranian sand.
“Maybe try to force the Anima out. Exorcise it. If the human is unconscious, the Anima might need to leave it. But be careful with the human; this probably wasn’t his choice.” After all, who would willingly agree to be controlled by an Anima?
“Wouldn’t be mine,” the guard said. “Why does it keep disappearing?”
“I think it’s slipping in and out of the Aetheric. And no, I’m not sure how.” I’d been scanning the market, from pacing soldiers to horses eager to move, shoppers and sellers terrified and thrilled by the action. And finally found the green haze to my left.
“There!” I said, pointing. “First carriage. Near the front horses.”
But before the guard could move toward it, a whistle sliced through the market—and it wasn’t one of the prince’s soldiers.
They emerged from the growing shadows, sending startled market sparrows into the sky in a cloud of furious cries: a dozen people in worn tunics and trousers layered with vests and scarves, linen masks tied across their faces. They pounced like the tigers on the prince’s fluttering banners.
“Death to the emperor’s spawn!” they shouted together, and rushed toward the soldiers. The soldiers scrambled to face them, and the market became chaos, with unit leaders yelling ordersto bring their troops back into position and the clang of metal on metal.
One of the new assassins dashed toward us.
“Behind you!” I shouted at the guard. He turned to face the attacker, then dropped into a low spin to avoid the assassin’s sword. The blade missed him but was still moving as it came toward me. I pivoted swiftly to avoid it and found myself face-to-face with the guard again.
“You’re fast,” he said, admiration warm in his eyes.
“I am.” Wren had named me “Fox” for a reason.
