“You’re free of him,” Grayson said. “Your slavery to the Trifect ends tonight if you wish it to. Or has the legendary thief grown afraid?”
“You’ve done what you wished,” Thren said, just loud enough to be heard over the din. “When will you be returning to Mordeina?”
Grayson accepted an offered drink, downed half of it.
“I don’t know, Thren,” he said, grinning. “I’m the man who killed the Watcher. I feel like a bit of a hero. Maybe I should stick around, enjoy the rewards.”
The two stared each other down. Grayson knew Thren was no fool, and could see the plans arrayed against him.
“You can’t stop us,” Grayson said softly.
“We’ll see about that.”
When he turned to leave, Thren grabbed his arm and held him. Grayson tensed, and he shot the thief a cold glare.
“The Watcher’s body,” he asked. “Where is it?”
Grayson just gave him a smile.
“Just thought to be sure,” Thren said. “It’d be terrible if he somehow survived. You’d truly look the fool.”
Grayson pulled himself free, marched for the door. Just by the exit, he noticed Alan drinking himself stupid at one of the tables. Alan’s eyes met his, and the man jerked to his feet. Grayson stepped in his way, preventing him from escaping.
“In my guild, you’d have your tongue cut out inch by inch, each piece shoved back down your throat until you drowned in blood,” Grayson said, and he took a rapid step closer, startling the man. “But then again...this isn’t my guild, is it?”
He laughed, shoved open the door to the outside. Lifting his arms to the moon, he let out a whoop, feeling so damn alive.
“The Watcher’s dead!” he shouted. His deep voice echoed throughout the night. “Praise be, the Watcher’s dead! We are free!”
He heard no cry in return, but he felt it flowing through the city’s veins. Day was near, and when it arrived, they’d all listen, all wait to hear proof against the claim. But if none appeared, then come nightfall...
Four years of pent up rage and vengeance would be unleashed across the city. This was everything he’d hoped for. Letting out another primal cry, he punched the air, his heart still pounding from the fight. The Watcher had been good, no question, but he’d been better. And if he was better, then nothing in Veldaren could stop them.
Not when the Suns came in from Mordeina, slipping through every crack and window. The city was ripe for the taking. Within days, they would pluck it from the soft hands of the current guilds, and in an iron fist, show all of Dezrel who should truly be feared when the sun went down. It wasn’t Thren. It wasn’t the Watcher.
It was him.
13
When word reached Antonil, he pushed aside his morning meal and hurried to his room. A knot in his stomach, he put on his tunic with trembling hands. Over it went his armor, needing the hard metal against his body to feel safe. If it were true...if the Watcher were dead...
He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the cold truth. Victor had already stirred them into a frenzy. With the Watcher gone, his ability to keep the peace, whether it was symbolic or real, was over.
“Antonil,” Sergan said, spotting him as he exited the castle.
“I have matters to attend to,” Antonil said, not slowing.
“The King’s looking for you,” Sergan said. “He’s talking about calling in soldiers from all corners of Dezrel, even leaving his throne to...sir, please, listen to me!”
“It sounds like Edwin needs comforting,” Antonil said, spinning about and grabbing his friend by the shoulders. “Shame you weren’t able to catch me before I left the castle.”
Sergan swallowed, and his jaw clenched.
“Understood, sir,” he said.
In peace, and without escort, Antonil passed through the streets. He looked like any other guard, and earned himself hardly a second glance. Ears open, he listened to the conversations, the hushed whispers of the marketplace. All wondered the same thing. The Watcher was dead. What did that mean? A few were glad, and some blamed all the bloodshed on him, but most understood. Most remembered the chaos of Thren’s decade-long personal war.
Antonil passed through the western gates of the city, then hooked off the beaten path. It wasn’t often he went to the Eschaton mercenaries, only when he needed a matter dealt with quickly and quietly. But this was something he had to know. Rumors and questions would not suffice, nor would he entrust this knowledge to a messenger, either. Eyes downcast, he approached their tower along the edge of the King’s Forest. Pausing a moment before the door, he took a breath, then knocked.