PROLOGUE

Kill No Others

Of war, Azalan knew little. Of politics and nobility, yet less. The men he pretended to serve spoke of the coming war, but Azalan was uninterested. What Azalan knew best was killing, the sweet, blissful snuffing out of another’s life. He moved, unseen, among the most powerful men in Seraketh, just another grey-robed Kiian slave among many. Once, he had cursed the Seraki for their awful treatment of his people. Now, he considered it an advantage. Indeed, his patchy grey skin, rounded eyes and flattened nose allowed him access to places and people that otherwise might have taken months of planning.

Standing off to the side, head bowed, he took a quick look around the room. Beside him stood a Kiian who truly was a slave. Azalan could see the dejected submission in the young man’s eyes; there had been slave rebellions in the distant past, but the Kiian had long since had their will to resist bred out of them; they were born submissive, perfect slaves. Not Azalan.

Standing around the great stone table in the middle of the room, covered in maps and reports, were the six most powerful men in Seraketh. Adatha Kohlan, square-jawed, hard-eyed and stern, High Commander of the Throneguard. Selin Gharda, lean, narrow-eyed and distant, High Commander of the Moonstriders. Dian Aslor, short and stocky, wide-chinned and thin-mouthed, High Commander of the Sun’s Chosen. Edrin Skaen, long-haired, narrow-faced and youthful, High Commander of the Blue Vanguard. Tereft Lait, scarred and wrinkled, hard and grizzled, High Commander of the Stormwall.

Ashere Felir, tall, regal, High King of Seraketh.

By morning, all would be dead at the hands of a Kiian slave who could not be found.

The men continued to talk. They spoke of war, of tactics. Azalan paid little attention. He awaited his signal. Hours passed. He served the men hohka, a warm drink brewed from hohkasha leaves, at their command. A small part of him was sickened at having to bow and jump at their every word. A larger part of him was more than happy to play along for the moment, knowing what awaited. Yet more hours passed. The men argued, yelled, thumped the stone table.

The king seemed to speak the least, Azalan noted. The others, however, would immediately fall silent and hang on his every word when he did. Though the subject matter was of no interest to him, Azalan still found himself absently studying their social tendencies. All were men of power, of nobility, and of scheming, perhaps most of all. They may have all been on the same side of this war, of the same blood, but all had personal agendas, and none shared everything with all the others.

Still more hours went by, and the king called for a short recess. The High Commanders, most red-faced and angry with one another, took the opportunity gladly. All six men left the room, their two Kiian attendants forgotten.

Moments later, a man in a long red and gold robe entered. He was tall, with short auburn hair and striking blue eyes. Azalan and his counterpart both bowed immediately. This man was a Sunpriest, and his position commanded respect.

The man stood there, in the doorway, a moment, looking down his noses at the two of them, as if in disgust. Then, he walked across the room, toward the opposite door. Odd. Azalan couldn’t imagine this room would serve well as a shortcut to or from anywhere. The priest had his hands clasped behind his back, and walked with a regal bearing akin to that of the king. As the man passed, something – a sheet of paper? – dropped from his hands. He kept walking. Azalan was about to speak, to inform the priest, when he saw the symbol printed on the paper. He closed his mouth and waited for the priest to leave, then leant down to retrieve the folded paper.

The symbol printed on the front – two daggers in parallel, crossed with a rose – was one he knew well. Carefully, he unfolded it.

Kill only the king.

The others must see you.

Kill no others.

Kill no others. Azalan’s least favourite words. He took a deep breath, then let it out, folding the paper again and slipping it under his robes and into the pocket of the loose trousers he wore underneath.

Kill no others. He shook his head. Well, this should be exciting, at least.

Moments later, the king returned with the High Commanders. The king stood at the near end of the table, opposite the door to Azalan’s left. On the opposite side of the table, standing next to the king, was Tereft Lait. The High Commander glared at the others, stroking his grizzled beard absently.

Once more, Azalan waited. It didn’t take long.

High Commander Tereft Lait cleared his throat loudly, signalling that he wished for a drink.

Azalan hurried to fill a glass with a violet Azinen wine, ensuring he beat his counterpart to it. Slowly, seemingly submissively, he made towards the High Commander, taking the route that would take him behind the king. Once there, he dropped the glass.

With one smooth motion, before the glass touched the stone floor, Azalan flicked his wrist, bringing a dagger into his hand, reached up, grabbed the king’s hair, and sliced the dagger across the man’s throat.

The brief moment of silence was shattered by the breaking of the wine glass. Azalan looked each man in the eye. They looked on, horrified, unmoving. Azalan released the kings head, and he slumped forward, dead.

Moments passed, and then the men’s faces contorted with rage, though the slave simply watched, expressionless, which seemed odd to Azalan. Almost as if he’d been expecting it.

High Commander Kohlan was first to react.

“Assassin! Assassin in the war room!” Kohlan bellowed, unsheathing the blade at his waist. The others did likewise, advancing on Azalan as one.

But Azalan was quicker.

He threw off the grey slave’s robe – it would only get in the way – and pulled through the sapphire attached to the back of his hand. He became fast, almost impossibly fast.

He spun, jumped, twisted away from the blades the High Commanders swung wildly at him. He turned and made for the door. He was there almost instantly, briefly pulling on his emerald. Strength surged through his muscles as his shoulder his the solid wooden door. It splintered before him, sending chunks of wood flying into the hallway. Absently, he noticed a large shard of wood hit a passing servant – a young Seraki boy – in the shoulder, slamming him into the wall opposite. He should be fine, Azalan told himself as he turned immediately left and sped down the hallway. Tapestries and paintings became a blur, and in moments he was at the end of the short hallway. Turning left here would lead him to escape.

Instead, he stopped, turned, and cut off his pull through his sapphire. The High Commanders were bolting out of the room, looking left and right just as he turned. They saw him, and paused in shock once again. Azalan looked at his hand. Faint blue energy, almost like smoke, rose from his skin – the after effect of a Gempull. Gem magic was strictly prohibited in Seraki, as they believed it to be evil. Why, exactly, Azalan did not know, but he wasn’t really concerned.

“Heathen!” screeched High Commander Aslor his green eyes filling with religious fervour.

As the men charged him once more with renewed rage, Azalan took his blade and wiped away the king’s blood on a nearby tapestry, which happened to depict the Sun elevating the Seraki above other men. At this, High Commander Aslor let loose an almost bestial scream as he thrust his sword at the assassin. Azalan pulled through his sapphire again, ducking the blade and making toward his escape.

As he turned, guards began piling around the corner ahead, weapons at the ready. As he sprinted unnaturally fast toward them, they advanced. They seemed to have an insurmountable advantage. Ten guards in front, six High Commanders behind, with nowhere else to run.

Just before he came within spear-range of the guards, armoured in simple steel with a blue and gold tabard over the top, he leapt, pulling through his emerald and topaz, but maintaining the pull on his sapphire. The emerald sent a surge of strength to his legs, allowing him to jump further and higher than he otherwise could have. The topaz made his physical form lighter, making the jump yet more effective. He released his pull on the emerald the moment his feet left the floor, to avoid draining it unnecessarily. Once he’d cleared the heads of the confused guards, he manipulated his pull on the topaz, making himself spin in the air, and then pulling himself to the ceiling. In effect, he had changed the direction in which his body was affected by gravity. He landed smoothly on the ceiling, keeping his pull on the topaz, then continued running. By the time the guards realised what was happening and raised their spears above them, Azalan was already past them.

He relinquished his pull on the topaz, simultaneously kicking from the ceiling into a sideways flip that would land him on his feet. He hit the ground running, sending puffs of ethereal smoke into a cloud around, the colours mixing and creating a unique pattern. Such a shame, he told himself, that gem magic is vilified by most all the world. It’s so beautiful.

He continued to pull on his sapphire, and his legs carried him almost unconsciously to his destination. He found himself in an abandoned store room on the west side of the palace. The once-boarded up window here was the same way Azalan had gotten in. He crossed the room and shifted the rotting wooden bookcase aside to reveal the window, and felt a rush of fresh air. He breathed it in with a sigh.

Shouting from the hallway. They’re still on me, the persistent bastards. He breathed out, then looked down at the back of his right hand, where his gemstones lay embedded in his skin. Five glowed brightly, but the sapphire had turned dull. Great.

Azalan climbed onto the window ledge and looked out over the city, grimacing at the sight of the blocky, unsightly Seraki architecture. He could hear the cheering, the music from here. Tonight was the New Sun festival. A Seraki tradition that celebrated the new year, when they believed the sun – their god – was born anew. A foolish belief, as far as Azalan concerned, but he couldn’t deny the people’s happiness on this night. Happiness he had soured with murder.

Azalan shook his head. The door burst open behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see High Commander Kohlan marching in with a contingent of men at his back. He looked at Azalan, perched nimbly on the window ledge, and scowled. Azalan looked back out over the city, and dropped. He heard the briefest of shouts from the room before he fell out of earshot. He let himself fall a few moments, then pulled through his topaz.

His gravity shifted, trying to pull him upwards, but only slowing him. He waited until he had slowed almost to a stop, and adjusted the pull, then extended his legs to stand on the wall. He turned and looked back up, through a haze of indistinct, almost transparent smoke as it streamed from his skin. Kohlan leaned out of the window, staring at him, eyes wide, then began yelling orders into the room behind him. He leaned back in, then a nervous archer emerged moments later, standing on the window ledge and looking down. It was a difficult angle, but the archer took aim anyway.

With his sapphire drained, Azalan was forced to pull instead on his ruby. He forced the same effect through it, to make him faster. This would drain the ruby much faster than usual, but he didn’t have far to go, and ruby had the highest capacity for magic anyway. He sprinted, once more, down the wall, dodging this way and that. He couldn’t know where the arrows would fly, but if he kept moving from side to side, it would minimise the chance that the archer would hit him. He just had to hope it wasn’t a good archer.

It paid off. Within moments, he reached the bottom and released his pull on the topaz, which let him fall to the ground. His feet touched grass, and he kept running. The area around the western side of the palace was a public garden, completely unguarded. Azalan thought he had been quick enough that they couldn’t possibly have sent soldiers to head him off.

He was right. Before he knew it, he was clear of the palace, and clear of the garden, entering the city proper just as his ruby ran dry. He emerged onto the Silver Tradeway, as the Seraki called it. The pride of Serakal, capital of the kingdom of Seraketh. Usually it was, Azalan grudgingly admitted, quite the sight. The sun gave the near-reflective stones of the street an incredible orange hue, that made the whole street seem as though it were on fire. Sunstone, they called. Azalan had a suspicion that the stones had been cast using magic, but the Seraki would never admit to that; magic of all kinds was an affront to their god.

Tonight, however, one could just barely see the sunstone of the street. Everywhere he looked, there were revellers, musicians, performers, merchants. It would be hard to find someone in a crowd such as this.

As he made his way toward the western gate, Azalan couldn’t help but wonder what all these people would feel tomorrow. Certainly not the joy and elation they felt now. No, tomorrow would bring dark news to the Seraki indeed.

The king was dead.