Sharon Shinn - The Twelve Houses 1 - Mystic and Rider

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MYSTIC AND RIDER

The Twelve Houses Book 1

By

Sharon Shinn

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

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Viking I Firebird Books by Sharon Shinn

THE SAFE-KEEPER'S SECRET

MYSTIC AND RIDER

SHARON SHINN

A

ACE BOOKS, NEW YORK

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

Penguin Group (Canada), 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario M4V 3B2, Canada

(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of

Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124,

Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New

Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), Cnr. Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310,

New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank,

Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the

product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely

coincidental.

Kristin del Rosario.

First edition: March 2005

ISBN 0-441-01246-9 1

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For two women, sisters to each other, who touched my life profoundly:

Cissy, still the best teacher I ever had, and Mary Anne, who took care of me

when I was far from home.

There are all kinds of magic.

CHAPTER 1

KARDON stood at the back of the tavern, surveying the night's clientele, and

smiled with a brutal satisfaction. A chilled and rainy night, so he hadn't expected

many customers, and he'd been right. There were a handful of regulars playing chess

in the corner or drinking at the bar and eyeing the newcomers with a speculative

sideways interest. Kardon wasn't really a charitable sort, but he almost found it in

him to feel sorry for the four strangers scattered throughout the long, low-beamed

room. The chances were good that one or all of them would lose his money—or his

life—before the night was over.

Kardon's regular customers were, to a man, thieves, cutthroats, and hired blades

whose scruples had never been overnice. Honest work had been hard to come by

here in the dead of winter. Who could blame them for taking advantage when good

fortune presented them with a few easy purses to pick, a few unwary travelers to

dispose of?

Leaning his arms on the wooden bar, Kardon glanced around the room again.

There were two whose lives looked to be already forfeit. One was a slim, nervous

young man who sat by himself in the farthest corner of the room and seemed to be

drinking his very first glass of ale as he scarcely picked at a hearty dinner. He

couldn't have been more than seventeen and did not look like he had led a

particularly difficult life. Kardon guessed him to be some lord's son who had

quarreled with his father and run off to seek a life of adventure. Which would

tragically end tonight in this tavern or in the alley out back. So much for stupid

young noblemen who didn't know where they belonged.

The other solitary visitor was also a young man, possibly in his early twenties,

sandy-haired, strongly built, and a little raffish. This one, Kardon judged, had had

some experience street fighting; he would not be so easily overcome, even if two or

three assailants came at him at once. Still, sheer numbers would do him in. He might

escape with his life but certainly without his wallet or any other valuables he might

have on his person. He was drinking cautiously, nursing his second glass of ale after

eating every bite of meat on his plate. Hungry, wary, and tough—but solitary. A

waterfront tavern in the city of Dormas was not a place to come without friends.

More thoughtfully, Kardon examined the other two strangers, sitting together at a

round table in the middle of the room and engaging in occasional conversation with

the regular customers who sat close by. Seafaring folk, by their dress, probably

docked overnight at the harbor a stone's throw from Kardon's place. Successful at

it, too, by the cut of their clothes and their freehanded way of tossing a coin to

Kardon or his servers when they brought out fresh trays of food and drink. The

richest prey in the room tonight—but the hardest to pluck.

For one thing, there were two of them. For another, the man was black-haired and

burly, the bulk and strength of his muscles apparent even under the winter layers of

wool and leather clothing. Kardon could see the short blade at his belt and guessed

he also carried a knife or two concealed in his boot or up his sleeve. The man looked

like a fighter, even as he relaxed over dinner. One bell at the front door, one crash in

the back room, and he'd be on his feet with a hilt in his hand, unless Kardon greatly

missed his guess. No, this one would not go down easily, and Kardon's friends

might find that his sword outweighed his wallet.

It was the man's companion that Kardon found most curious, and now he turned

his eyes to the final stranger. A woman, by the Pale Lady's silver eye. A woman,

whom her companion had addressed as "Captain," and who held herself so regally

that even Kardon, who despised women, could understand why a man might take

orders from her. She was seated now, but he had seen her when she entered. She

was tall as a man, and dressed like one in leather pants and high boots and a woven

vest. Her white-blond hair was cropped so short it stood out around her face in a

careless aureole. He had noted her posture when she walked in, how light she was on

her feet, how quick and assured her movements were. She was a fighter, too, handy

with a blade and not afraid to use it, or Kardon was an idiot. She might look like

easy pickings, but Kardon was willing to bet she rarely came off the worse in any

encounter. Especially not with that bruiser fighting at her side. He would guess they

had dispatched any number of enemies on the high seas or dry land, and wouldn't

object to a little rough-and-tumble now if it came down to it.

As it would. Kardon's customers weren't nearly as discerning as the barkeeper

himself. They'd see rich woman dressed as a sea captain and think they'd been

delivered a bounty straight from the White Lady herself.

"A little more ale, eh, my friend?" the woman called out to him just as Kardon

reached this point in his musings. "It's a nasty night to go back into, and I think I

need to fortify myself against the cold."

"Take care you don't fortify yourself into a stupor, Senneth," the man beside her

growled. The woman laughed and snapped the fingers of her left hand. Kardon

caught a glimpse of smoky white moonstones on a bracelet circling her lifted wrist. It

almost made him like her for a moment to know that she wore the badge of the Pale

Mother. But even the moon goddess would not be able to protect her tonight.

"You worry too much, Tayse," she said before lifting her voice to call to Kardon

again. "Another pitcher!"

Kardon nodded. "Cammon!" he shouted toward the kitchen. "Our guests need

attention."

A moment later, Cammon came out through the swinging door, bearing a tray of

ale and bread. He went straight toward the table with the sea folk, so he must have

been spying at the door. He looked even thinner than usual under his shapeless

clothes, as if he had been starving himself just out of spite. Kardon promised himself

he'd find the time to give the boy a good whipping sometime in the next day or two.

When the weather cleared up, when the customers cleared out, when he found a free

moment.

Cammon was setting the tray on the table before the sea folk. "Ale," he said in his

soft voice. "And more bread, if you want it."

The woman called Senneth, who had been arguing in a low voice with her

companion, looked up at his words. "You," she said. "You've got a funny accent.

Where are you from, then? Not Gillengaria?"

Cammon shook his head, his unkempt hair falling into his eyes. "No, Captain," he

said. "I've only been in this country a month or so."

"Well? Where were you before?"

He shrugged, his thin shoulders rising and falling under the fabric of his shirt.

"Arberharst and Sovenfeld, mostly. We moved around a lot when I was little."

"We?" she demanded. Kardon marveled that she could actually be interested in

the life story of a servant boy—an indentured one at that, with a couple of years to

work off before he could consider himself a freeman. But she might be the type

whose roving attention was caught by any odd detail—the type who remembered

things you'd much rather she forgot. For a moment, Kardon felt sorry for the dark

man with her, who no doubt hated and feared her. Capricious people were always

the hardest to answer to.

Cammon glanced back at the bar to see how his master wanted him to deal with

such curiosity, and Kardon shrugged. Let her talk, for now. Let her interrogate. Her

mouth would be stopped up soon enough, if Kardon's friends had their way. "My

parents and me. My father was a roamer, and my mother followed him wherever he

went."

"And how'd you end up in Dormas working as a tavern boy and wearing a slave

collar around your throat?" she asked, nodding toward the slim silver torque tight

around Cammon's neck. Kardon watched him put a hand up to it and touch the

moonstone on the very center of the collar. Kardon had known from the beginning

that this boy could be trouble; he had taken no chances. He had bound Cammon

with the Pale Mother's powerful protective jewel.

"My father died," Cammon said quietly. "We stayed in Arberharst till the money

ran out. My mother's roots were back in Gillengaria, so we set sail a few months

ago. She got sick on the voyage and never recovered. We landed and I—I had to

pay for my passage some way. The captain bound me to Kardon."

The woman glanced over at Kardon, her eyes coolly assessing, and he felt a

momentary, uncharacteristic urge to explain himself. I paid good money for him! I

needed an extra hand in the kitchen! I feed him hearty meals every day, except the

days he won't eat them because he's such a sly and wretched boy. She looked

away, back at Cammon. "Does it hurt?" she asked very softly.

He put his hand back up to the collar. "It's not really tight," he said. "It doesn't

choke."

Senneth lifted her right hand, which unexpectedly held a dagger, and touched the

very tip of the blade to the glowing gem. "The moonstone," she said, her voice quite

low but every word precisely enunciated. "Does it hurt when it touches your skin?"

Cammon dropped his hand and stared at her. The cutthroats sitting nearest her

table also turned their heads to eye her curiously. The whole room seemed to have

grown still and silent, waiting for his answer.

"Yes," he said finally. "It burns."

The woman's fine eyebrows rose. Delicately, she used the flat of the blade to lift

up the necklet and expose a patch of red skin under the spot where the moonstone

lay. "From what I hear," she said slowly, "the only ones with anything to fear from

the touch of a moonstone are mystics. Are you one of those?"

A whisper went around the room as the other occupants repeated the word.

Mystic… mystic… mystic… Are you one of those? Kardon shivered, just a little. He

was a plain man, mostly honest, not very subtle, and he hated and feared those who

were reputed to possess magical ability. Not two months ago, he had been among

the crowd that stoned an old woman to death after she was accused of magic in the

marketplace, though she shrieked that she was innocent even as the rocks hit her

face and stomach. He had had his suspicions of Cammon the minute the sea captain

brought him through the door, because there was something about the boy's delicate

face and huge, flecked eyes that radiated an otherworldly wisdom. But greed had

won out over Kardon's uneasiness—a virtual chattel for a very good price— and he

had been sure that he could, with force and the Mother's protection, control such a

slight and contemptible creature as Cammon. So he had made the bargain and

welded on the collar, and he'd had no trouble with the boy. None at all.

"He's no mystic," Kardon called, still standing behind the bar and watching. "He's

just a servant. He does my bidding."

The woman called Senneth turned to look at him, and again he found her gaze

unsettling. Her eyes were a crystal gray, wide and thoughtful and impossible to read.

She looked like she was having no trouble at all scanning his soul. "Only a mystic,"

she said, "is burned by the touch of the Pale Mother's hand."

One of the regular customers gave a gruff laugh. "That right, Kardon?" he

inquired. "You're piling up magicians in the back room? What, do you have them

doctoring our beer so we fall asleep at our tables and you can rob us blind?"

Kardon himself felt blind with a swift surge of fury. "He's a boy. He's no mystic.

And I'll thank you to remember what kind of service I've given you all these years."

Senneth had edged her knife even deeper under the collar, till the point of it rested

against the soft flesh under the boy's chin. He was staring down at her, mesmerized

by terror or whatever power she had in her eyes; she was smiling up at him with an

expression that seemed to owe as much to rage as mirth.

"What would you do, I wonder," she murmured, "if I twisted this blade enough to

break your collar? What sort of power would you show us then?"

At that exact moment, someone screamed.

Kardon's attention whipped that way. While almost everyone else had been

watching the sea captain question the serving boy, another small drama had been

playing itself out in the back of the room. Two of Kardon's old friends had

approached the scrawny young nobleman and backed him into a corner. He now

cowered against the wall, arms ineffectually raised before him, looking even more

slight and helpless than before. His face was so fine and so white that Kardon

imagined he'd rarely seen the countryside outdoors, let alone the rough weather in a

training yard. He'd probably never held a sword in his life.

"Please," he was saying, trying to bat away the weapons pointed in his direction.

"I have nothing—but my father, he'll pay you—if you don't hurt me—he's very

wealthy—"

"Young handsome boy like you could be worth a lot to us," purred one of the

attackers, poking at the boy's shoulder and throat with the point of his sword. "I

don't like the idea of a ransom unless the stakes are awfully high, but I bet you've got

more valuables on you than you even know. What about the pin on your hat here? Is

that a set of rubies I see?" And he knocked the hat off with the tip of his blade.

And a cascade of golden curls came tumbling down over the young man's

shoulders.

Over the young woman's shoulders, Kardon corrected himself.

Everyone in the bar was now staring at the events unfolding in the corner. Even

dressed in a velvet jacket cut like a man's, the woman was suddenly unmistakably

female, and terrified. Her face went even whiter; she crossed her arms over her chest

as if to protect herself. But her attackers were chortling with unrestrained

delight—what a glorious catch! what a prize with a dozen fabulous uses!—and they

pressed even closer, weapons falling to their sides. One of them even lifted a hand to

brush his fingers across her ivory-smooth cheek.

"Don't touch her," a cold voice said. Cursing himself for continually losing track

of the other players in the room, Kardon cut his eyes over to the last remaining

stranger. The sandy-haired man was on his feet, his cloak thrown over his chair, and

he had a dagger in each hand. The weapon belt now revealed around his waist

showed an array of other small knives tucked in well-worn sheaths. More than a

street fighter—a mercenary soldier, trained for one thing only. "Leave her in peace,"

he added.

"You leave in peace before you don't have a chance to leave at all," her attacker

snarled. "This isn't your fight."

"I make it mine," the mercenary said calmly. "Let her pass."

"Fight for her," the cutthroat said.

Then so many things happened at once that Kardon could not follow them all.

The mercenary lunged for the cutthroat. The other assailant swung his sword at the

golden-haired girl. The girl crumpled to the floor in what appeared to be a

swoon—until her attacker shouted with bewilderment.

"She's gone! Where'd she go?" he cried—and then he howled in pain as

something small and feral raked him across the thigh.

Kardon dashed around the edge of the bar, a blade of his own in hand, intending

to join the fight. He'd only gotten two steps away from the counter when his way

was blocked by the burly black-haired sailor.

"We're taking your servant boy with us," the big man said, tossing a handful of

silver onto the polished wood of the bar. "This may or may not cover his purchase

price."

"What?" Kardon screeched, but the big man shoved him back so forcefully that

he lost his balance and fell heavily to the floor. Winded and dazed, he could only lie

there and watch the quick, efficient activity occurring throughout his tavern. The sea

captain had come to her feet, her knife still under Cammon's collar, and she gave her

blade one hard twist. The silver snapped in two and fell to the boy's feet, while his

hands went up in wonder to his throat.

"Out the door," Senneth said, pushing him that way. "Wait for us."

He stumbled out. She strode forward, knife still in hand, Tayse at her side. They

waded into the fight across the room, which now involved every patron of the bar,

so that the mercenary was totally overmatched. Not for long; once the sea captain

and her bundle of muscle joined the fray, it was clear that these were three seasoned

warriors who had fought countless times in battles more hazardous than this one.

Their blade work was methodical and unerring, and they beat back their would-be

attackers with cold efficiency. Within minutes, Kardon's friends had either collapsed

panting to the floor or run for the kitchen to escape.

Of the golden-haired woman there was no sign, though Kardon thought he saw a

small calico wharf cat scurry across the floor and out the front door through which

Cammon had disappeared.

The sea captain glanced around once as if to make sure no more danger lurked in

the corners, then sheathed her blade in one economical movement. "Is Kirra

outside?" she asked the men who stood beside her. Both of them were still holding

their weapons in their hands.

"I saw her go through the door," the sandy-haired young man said.

"Good. Then we'll be off. The boy rides with you, Justin, if Donnal hasn't

managed to find another horse."

"I'll just watch this one a moment while you organize the others," Tayse said,

turning his attention to Kardon. The woman laughed as she ushered the younger man

outside.

The barkeeper stayed prone on the floor, raising one of his hands in a gesture of

submission. "I'm not doing anything," he said. "I'm not coming after you. Just take

what you want and go. Lousy mercenaries. Thieves of the worst kind," he could not

stop himself from muttering.

The big man smiled as if he was genuinely amused. "We're not mercenaries," he

Sharon Shinn - The Twelve Houses 1 - Mystic and Rider

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