The Conjurer's Riddle by Andrea Cremer
Charlotte frowned at the conjurer. “But he’s . . . different.”
Nicodemus’s double thatch of white brows lifted. “You afraid of him?”
“No,” Charlotte said, but hesitated before speaking again. What was it that she was trying to ask? What did she want the old man to tell her?
“Grave is powerful.” She turned her gaze upon the boy, who lay in quiet repose. “But so trusting. I don’t want to ask him to do anything out of my own self-interest.”
“That you choose to ask such a question is answer in itself.” Nicodemus leaned on his staff. “It proves your judgment will fall to the boy’s well-being before anything else. You won’t set him to tasks unworthy.”
The conjurer’s words filled Charlotte with profound comfort, despite his being a near stranger. Before she could thank him, Nicodemus abandoned his casual stance, stiffening into a tall, rigid pose.
He turned his walking stick so he held each end in one hand, and the length of wood was parallel to the earth. He closed his eyes. It was so quiet, Charlotte’s shallow breaths sounded monstrously loud.
So quiet.
A cool prickling traveled down Charlotte’s spine.
The entire bayou had gone silent. No creature stirred. A place teeming with life now mimicked a desolate tomb.
Then came a faint sound, the barest rustle in the treetops above.
Nicodemus’s eyelids snapped open; his eyes went wide with alarm. He swept his walking stick in a great arc, shouting words unintelligible to Charlotte. Tiny flames leapt from the bearers’ candles and rose into the sky. They grew larger and larger, chasing each other through the air until a blazing ring hovered over Nicodemus.
He shouted again. The flames roared and then snuffed out, leaving a thick cloud of smoke in their wake and casting a cloak of shadows over everything and everyone.
NICODEMUS STALKED TOWARD Charlotte as his followers scattered, vanishing into the woods with nary a sound. Smoke still swirled high in the trees, but its cover had thinned to a mere veil that moonlight pierced easily. Where the glow of candle flames had been warm and golden, the moon poured cool, silver light into the bayou. Cypress trunks became bone-white pillars, and hanging moss floated on the wind like restless spirits.
Silence continued its oppressive reign and Charlotte felt as though she were shrinking into herself, attempting to hide from the lack of sound. In the New York Wildlands, a silent forest meant a predator was near. But what kind of hunter could make so many people flee at once?
Charlotte’s gaze swung from the approaching conjurer to the unseen threat among the trees. She stood firm when Nicodemus drew near, prepared to fight if his intentions were hostile.
He stretched a gnarled hand toward her, his voice a harsh whisper. “Come. We must defend the boy.”
His glance fell to her waist where her dagger was sheathed. Charlotte took his hand with her left and drew her dagger with her right.
Though age made his skin like leather, Nicodemus had a remarkably strong grip. He led Charlotte to Grave’s side and released her hand before stepping to the other side of his body.
Something cut through the moonlight, casting a shadow trail on the ground as it sailed over Charlotte’s head. Whatever skulked in the treetops moved with incredible swiftness, yet created little sound. Charlotte brandished her dagger and crouched down, placing her left palm flat on the ground to anchor her body for now, but also to offer leverage should she need to propel herself away from that spot.
Another soft rustling came from above and was echoed in the treetops opposite the source of the first sound. Two shapes, moving in perfect synchronicity, spun out of the highest branches. They descended rapidly, like spiders traveling on silken thread from their webs to the earth, but when they touched the ground the figures rose to reveal their tall, human shape. Clothed in black from head to toe, their silhouettes were slender with gentle curves at their waists and hips. A pair of women, but who were they and what did they want?
Charlotte’s curiosity dissolved into a mixture of anger and dread when she saw the glimmer of four long, silver blades extending from each one of their hands like wicked, curving claws.
The pair stalked forward, angling to either side of Charlotte and Nicodemus.
“Leave now and you will live,” one of them said.
The sound of her voice breaking the long silence made Charlotte’s heart lurch.
The second stranger added, “You are not our concern. Only the boy.”
“This place is no domain of yours.” Nicodemus extended his staff toward the woman to their left. He swept the staff through the air as if drawing an invisible line. “Begone and take your war goddess with you.”
“The words of a heathen are empty to our Great Lady,” the woman answered with disdain. “Stand against her and you will face her wrath.”
“Summon your warriors, old man,” the other woman added. “Drive us away if you can.”
“We folk are no warriors,” Nicodemus answered. “Leave us in peace.”
“No quarter will be given as long as you harbor that.” The first woman’s silver talons flashed as they pointed at Grave.
“What do you want with him?” Charlotte asked, glad her voice came out strong despite her fear.
“It is not for you to know our purpose,” the first woman replied. They were on either side of Charlotte and Nicodemus now, making it impossible for her to watch both of them.
“Do not tether yourself to death,” the second woman said. “We have given you leave to go. Should you refuse, know that you will not be offered mercy again.”
They were closing on Charlotte and the Conjurer. The four bright blades that extended from each of their hands made Charlotte’s dagger look as threatening as a butter knife by comparison, and Nicodemus’s staff no more than a shepherd’s crook. Their weapons would offer a much greater reach than Charlotte’s. She couldn’t land a blow without coming well within striking distance of their claws. Nicodemus’s staff looked sturdy, but his age made it unlikely he’d be able to endure a long, arduous battle. Under other circumstances, Charlotte would have assessed these enemies and decided that flight, not fight, was her best chance of survival. But she couldn’t run. Grave was still unconscious and defenseless.
“Your answer?” The first woman asked.
“I’m not leaving.” Charlotte stayed low, waiting.
Nicodemus gripped his staff with both hands, adopting a defensive stance.
The second woman said, “As you will.”
Charlotte tensed, waiting for the pair to rush her. But the first attack came from Nicodemus, who bellowed and lunged. His staff whipped through the air, powered by the long sinewy muscles of his arms. Charlotte’s first thought was to follow and fight beside him, but she sensed movement to her right and whirled around just in time to jump out of the way. The second woman had leapt forward, claws extended and aiming for Charlotte’s undefended side.
Unable to both track Nicodemus and fight the other assailant, Charlotte put her full focus on her attacker—but not quickly enough. The woman’s foot shot out in a high, sharp kick, striking Charlotte’s forearm with force that drove pain terribly deep, making her cry out as she lost her grip on the dagger. Charlotte’s weapon hit the ground. She dove toward it, reaching for the hilt. Another searing pain flared through her left arm as the woman’s steel claws sliced through her flesh.
Charlotte fell, tumbling along the ground as her arm throbbed and hot blood poured over her skin. She knew the woman must be following her and would strike again at any moment. Though the pain made spots manifest in Charlotte’s vision, she rolled to her hands and knees. She would not simply submit to the next attack.
Ignoring the pain in her arm, Charlotte braced herself and gripped her dagger tight in both hands. Her attacker pounced. The woman’s arms blurred as her claws cut through the air, r
The woman grunted with pain, briefly losing her focus on the attack. Charlotte rolled back, flattening her spine against the ground while kicking up hard. Her feet hit the woman’s stomach and used the assailant’s momentum to propel her over Charlotte’s head and onto the ground well beyond the place where Charlotte lay.
As Charlotte pushed herself into a crouch, she heard a horrible cry. From the corner of her eye, she saw Nicodemus fall. Rage surged through her, flooding her body with new strength. With a shriek of pure fury, Charlotte dove forward, arms outstretched with her dagger gripped between both hands. She’d kept low, and the unexpected move caught her enemy by surprise. The woman leaned over, swinging her claws downward. The blades ripped the fabric of Charlotte’s dress but failed to reach her flesh.
Charlotte’s trajectory sent her flying between the woman’s calves. She hit the ground and immediately flipped over, bringing her dagger up with all the force she could muster. The wide blade sank deep into the woman’s lower back.
The woman uttered a long groan of pain that became a guttural cry as Charlotte twisted the blade. Charlotte’s feet came up kicking her enemy, forcing the woman to her knees while freeing Charlotte’s dagger. Jumping up, Charlotte wrapped her left arm around the woman’s head and jerked back. Charlotte set her jaw and, with a swift dagger stroke, opened the woman’s throat.
With her enemy dispatched, Charlotte went to Nicodemus’s aid. The conjurer was still on his feet, but his legs were streaked with blood and his movements had become slow and jerking. His opponent stood tall, watching Nicodemus with unconcealed contempt.
Fearing that an attempt at creeping up in surprise might be too slow, costing Nicodemus his life, Charlotte rushed at the remaining attacker. Sensing her approach, the woman pivoted and lashed out with her claws. Charlotte drew up short, nearly stumbling as she contorted her body to avoid the reach of the woman’s blades. Regaining her balance, Charlotte adopted a defensive posture, deeming it wisest to gauge her adversary’s attack style before devising a counter.
As she faced off with her enemy, Charlotte glanced at Nicodemus in the hopes he’d aid her. But the conjurer had fallen, and though his staff was still in his grip, he lay on his side, breathing heavily.
“You could still run,” the woman facing Charlotte said in a coaxing voice. “I promise I’d let you go.”
Charlotte glared at her. “I’m not running.”
The woman’s lips curled into a smile. “If you weren’t such a fool in choosing your enemies, I’d be tempted to recruit you.”
“Recruit me for what?”
Before the woman could answer, a shout came from the shadows along with a flurry of footsteps. Charlotte and her opponent looked toward the sounds, startled by the sudden interruption. When a figure appeared, Charlotte’s heart lurched. She recognized a woman’s silhouette garbed in dark colors like that of the other two warriors, but that semblance of uniformity was offset by startling flashes of gold and azure. She couldn’t take on two opponents at once, at least not for long.
But instead of silver claws, the new arrival wielded two swords, and her charge aimed full tilt at Charlotte’s opponent. Utterly taken aback by this unexpected ally, Charlotte stood transfixed as the two warriors crashed into each other, the force of their meeting sending both sprawling—though within a breath both were on their feet, facing one another again. The clawed fighter struck first. One arm slashed upward, demanding a block from one of the newcomer’s blades. The woman’s other arm thrust forward, aiming for the sword-wielder’s abdomen.
The gold-and-blue-clad woman’s right blade met the sweeping attack, and as her steel scraped against that of the claws she spun away from the second strike. Her opponent lurched forward and the sword-wielder continued to spin and then launched into the air, landing a kick in the center of the woman’s back. She grunted and stumbled, but didn’t fall.
When the swordswoman came at her again, she was ready for it. Her claws crossed over each other and steel screeched as two swords grated against eight claws. The warriors leapt apart and began to circle each other again. The ebony-clad woman darted forward, her claws raised as if to tear through her enemy’s chest. The woman in blue lifted her blades to fend off the assault. At the last moment, the clawed woman dove at the swordswoman’s legs, ready to rip into her thighs.
But the swordswoman shot upward, somersaulting over the slashing claws. The clawed woman hit the dirt and continued to slide forward. The woman in blue landed and whirled around, raising her blades once more. The claw-wielder had only begun to push herself up from the earth when two swords ran her through, pinning her body to the ground. She gave a horrible shudder, then went limp. The swordswoman jerked her weapons free. Her eyes remained intent on her dead opponent’s body. Something grabbed her attention and one of her swords flashed out. Charlotte heard a metallic crunching sound. The warrior bent down and picked something up from the ground next to the dead woman.
Charlotte scrambled to Nicodemus’s side. She bent over, searching for his wounds to assess their severity. Regret welled in her chest when she realized there was no need. Nicodemus’s slumped form no longer drew breath. His eyes were open and glassy.
Despite feeling the swordswoman’s eyes on her, Charlotte left the conjurer and went to Grave. She kept her dagger gripped tightly even though she worried that if she didn’t drop the weapon and bind her wounded arm, she’d soon lose enough blood to faint.
Grave’s prone body offered no sign that he’d regain consciousness any time soon. His stillness and the pale, near-translucence of his skin gave him the appearance of death—so much so that Charlotte’s breath seized up. And yet she knew he could not be dead. Rendered helpless, yes, but dead . . . she’d witnessed nothing in the course of that harrowing night that could have killed Grave. At least she didn’t think she had.
“He hasn’t been harmed.” The woman in blue’s voice was low and slightly muffled, but familiar.
Nicodemus had assured Charlotte as much, but she replied, “How do you know?”
Three women warriors. Two had been enemies, but who was the third?
“The magicians and seers of wild places like this one rarely aim to do harm.” The voice came again, but closer. Charlotte strained to see the speaker, but couldn’t spy anything in the darkness. “The same cannot be said for the Order of Arachne, who live and die by their blades.”
Charlotte’s breath caught. She knew that voice. But how could it be possible?
“Meg?”
Soft footfalls sounded to Charlotte’s left; she turned as a figure stepped into the moonlight, coming close enough that Charlotte could see the details of her clothing. Like the other two warriors, Meg was garbed in dark fabric and heavily armed, with calf-height boots featuring buckles that held slim daggers. Sleek, fitted trousers revealed the feminine curve of hips, accentuated by a deep blue sash. Gold cuffs guarded her arms from wrist to elbow, the metal etched with symbols unfamiliar to Charlotte. The swords with which she’d fended off their attackers were sheathed at her back. Their gilded hilts bore the same markings as her arm cuffs. Her face was almost entirely hidden by a veil of blue silk that wrapped around her skull and covered her nose and mouth, but her eyes were sharp as they held Charlotte’s gaze.
The woman reached up and pulled back her veil so the gauzy fabric slipped off her head and away from her face. “Yes, Lottie.”
Charlotte took in Meg’s exotic garb, trying to piece together some explanation of what had just transpired. “But how—”
“I’ll explain soon enough,” Meg replied. “First we need to leave this place.”
She drew a tiny flask from a pocket on her harness. “Drink this. I’ll tend to your arm.”
Charlott
“I’ll need to apply a poultice to this when we’re back in New Orleans,” Meg told her. “The Order of Arachne are fond of poison. The tonic I gave you works as a panacea against most of their formulations, but I won’t know for sure if it’s done all it needs to until I can make a closer examination of the damage.”
“What is the Order of Arachne?” Charlotte asked. “Why did they attack us?”
Meg nodded toward Grave. “He’s their target. You were simply an obstacle.”
“But Grave doesn’t know them,” Charlotte said. She winced when Meg knotted the cloth tight against her torn flesh. “He couldn’t. He still remembers almost nothing of his life before he met us and he’s hardly more than a boy. How would he have enemies like that?”
“Who he is has nothing to do with their mission.” Meg moved past Charlotte and knelt beside Grave. “What he is drives their purpose.”
“What he is?” Charlotte looked at Grave. Unconscious, he seemed peaceful, entirely harmless.
“A wandering soul. Neither good nor evil. He simply is,” Meg answered, repeating Nicodemus’s words. “The echo of a person.”
Drawing her gaze from Meg, Charlotte looked to the fallen conjurer. “He defended Grave. He didn’t have to.”
Meg nodded; her eyes held the same grief Charlotte felt. “His people will come for him. But they won’t come until we’re gone.”
“Are you sure?” Charlotte couldn’t tolerate the thought of abandoning the man who’d given his life for the sake of strangers.
“I am.”
“Meg, I don’t understand any of this,” Charlotte said, her mind awash with the confusing scenes that had played out. “Where did you even come from?”
“I was tracking the assassins sent after you,” Meg said, her voice warm with sympathy at Charlotte’s obvious weariness. “They encamped outside New Orleans, intending to take Grave in the city. His abduction caught them by surprise. They made quite a lot of noise about having to chase both of you down because of a meddling conjure man in the swamp. I’m sorry I didn’t arrive in time to help. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have lost his life.”