Chapter 1

Everything was annoying about everything.

It wasn’t just that Drenburg had all the qualities of a small town at the edge of the known world, complete with improperly paved streets and the expected surfeit of mud. What annoyed Nyraleth even more was that she didn’t want to be there in the first place. And that led even to more annoyance—with the fruitless search on which she’d spend her day, with the early spring weather that left much to be desired when it came to warmth and sunshine, and with the disturbing absence of hot tea to chase away the winter aura of the day…

Even the herbalist store on the other side of the street was annoying, though for a different reason.

Located at the ground floor of a narrow townhouse squeezed between two other equally narrow townhouses, it looked almost inviting. On a better day, Nyraleth wouldn’t consider it a flaw, but with all the other annoyances, it irked her how much it reminded her of her wealthy college city where she frequented similar small shops, and how it made her long for home. And that, in turn, brought about thoughts on the source of all the other annoyances, namely her friend Kerrick.

She huffed as frustration replaced her earlier worries about him in what seemed to be a vicious circle of those two emotions, but she knew better than to let those feelings stew. Instead, she made her way across the street, pausing only to find the best path around the deepest puddles. The sooner she was done, the sooner she could break that cycle of frustration and worry, preferably by unleashing them both on Kerrick himself, and then go back home.

A tiny bell rang as she opened the door, and she refrained from giving it an annoyed glare as if that inanimate object produced such cheerful sounds on purpose, only to add to her annoyance. And as the scents of herbs hit her nose, along with all the notions of familiarity, she remembered her manners and offered a friendly smile to the shopkeeper, an older and rather stout man with short, dark hair and dark eyes, because it wasn’t the man’s fault that Kerrick had made it his life’s mission to conjure sources of annoyance for her.

He looked her over and scowled. “We deal with no blood here.”

So much for reciprocating good manners and the feeling of familiarity with home… Back there, sanguinists were common, and nobody thought twice about them, let alone behaved unpleasantly to one. It seemed that either the sanguine arts weren’t particularly popular in Drenburg or she just happened upon someone with all the wrong ideas about them. Normally, she’d be tempted to correct any misconceptions, even if it required a long lecture, but after an unsuccessful day filled with minor annoyances, her patience was wearing too thin.

“I’m not here about blood. I’m looking for information.”

“We deal with none o’ that either,” the man replied.

Undeterred, she approached the counter. “Since you don’t deal with blood,” she said in that tone that made people think twice before interrupting her, a skill she’d picked up dealing with overconfident students, “I assume you don’t get many sanguinists around here, so you might remember my friend.” She lifted her finger as the shopkeeper opened his mouth. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t. He’s quite memorable. Tall, with groomed hair, and likely wearing a travel outfit that is not suited for travel at all. He has a pleasant face and smiles often. And he’s… enthusiastic about everything. The kind of man that would give a swindler his last coin in good faith.”

That last part wasn’t entirely true, because Kerrick had some common sense, save maybe for when it came to adventures, but it would paint the right picture.

The shopkeeper’s expression softened, and he looked at her with interest and almost compassion. “He really yer friend?”

She smiled at the disbelief in his tone. Having someone understand what it was like to deal with Kerrick washed away some of her earlier frustration. She also understood why he asked. Though her clothes were of fine make, at least by the local standards, her sturdy pants and practical overskirt leaned just as much toward function as fashion, if not more so, and her outer tunic had a hood to shield her both from elements and curious eyes. Her boots were those of a seasoned traveler—nothing fancy but comfortable and durable. Someone like her could not possible be friends with a rich man playing an adventurer.

“Unfortunately,” she replied with a hint of amusement.

While Kerrick was indeed a friend, it didn’t mean Nyraleth always liked what he did, like disappearing off on dangerous “adventures” that forced her out of the comfort of her home and into a land distant enough to be more than just inconvenient.

“He came several levendays back askin’ fer empty beads,” the shopkeeper said, “and if there was anyone to refill ’em ’round ’ere. He didn’t stay long, and you shouldn’t either.”

She furrowed her brow. His remarks suggested that people in Drenburg weren’t fond of sanguinists in general. This could be some deep-rooted prejudice, maybe even from the times of the Fallen Empire, but she doubted it. If they’d shunned sanguinists for centuries, the shopkeeper wouldn’t have so readily recognized who she was.

“Trouble?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

He nodded, solemn and unhappy. “We got us a kryvek, stabbin’ folk at night and drainin’ their blood. Till he’s found, Drenburg’s not a place for blood casters.” He gave her an appraising look. “I can see ye’re no kryvek, but a blood caster is a blood caster. People are scared.”

Nyraleth almost reached to the beads fastened to her arm braces and belt as if she could cover them from prying eyes, but she never hid who she was, and doing so would make her look more than a kryvek instead of less.

“Thank you,” she said. “Anything he said? My friend?”

The shopkeeper shrugged. “Wouldn’t remember even if I paid attention. He talked too much, and his words were too long.”

“I appreciate your help.” It wasn’t much, but at least she confirmed that Kerrick passed through town. “Would you be willing to do some business?”

He frowned. “Told ya we do no blood ’ere. Got rid of the rest of the beads too, after all the blood drinker stuff started.”

“Oh, I didn’t have that in mind,” she replied. Any sanguinist worth her blood would be well stocked for travel. It did make her wonder why Kerrick needed more, but she had to search for answers elsewhere, and it could be something simple like theft, loss, or accidental overuse. With Kerrick’s lack of experience in adventures, all of those possibilities were more than likely. “I was wondering if you had any tea for sale?”

“Tea?” He looked at her, confused.

“Tisanes will do. Herbal infusions?” she prompted with less and less hope.

He finally smiled with recognition. “I got some herbs better drank than et.”

Nyraleth waited for him to list the most popular blends, but he was looking at her with patient expectation, and she sighed. She should have known a small place like this would have remedy infusions rather than a selection of brewable plants one might simply want to enjoy.

“Some mint would be good,” she said with resignation.

In fact, it wouldn’t be good at all, but when one was far from home and from her precious stash of finest teas, one had little choice in the matter unless they wanted to roam the local woods in a rather futile and time-wasting search for any herbs of use. Nyraleth didn’t.

The shopkeeper eyed her with slight suspicion as if, in her hands, mint could start weeping bloody tears or something else equally outlandish. “How much?”

“About ten maza, please.” She had to find balance between restocking her dwindling supply and buying too much just in case she found some other place that had a better selection… any selection for that matter.

He came to life, his expression less stern as he fetched a fired clay container and rolled out a sheet of gray paper on the counter. The contrast between the container and the paper was fascinating: one could have easily been made in the times of the Fallen Empire or even earlier, crude and unrefined, and the other was a staple of contemporary progress, showing how far people had come since they rebelled against the Emperor’s cruel rule.

Yet, she belatedly noticed as he dug a measuring cup into the jar, even though he boasted the possession of paper sheets, he didn’t own a scale of any kind.

At least the cupful was generous, with the dry leaves piled on the top rather than leveled. He emptied it carefully onto the paper and then, to Nyraleth’s surprise, took more out of the jar. She was certain the measured amount was more than ten maza.

He folded the sides of the paper with care so that not a single leaf escaped and formed a tight package that he secured with a piece of twine. “That be all?”

Nyraleth nodded and placed a coin on the counter, more than the mint could be worth, but she wasn’t in the mood to haggle, especially when he not only told her about Kerrick, no matter how little it was, but also shared a warning about the kryvek.

“Thank you.” She took the package and headed for the door. “Be well.”

“You too.”

He didn’t tell her to heed his advice and leave town soon, but she could hear it in his voice as if, contrary to his dislike of sanguinists, he cared that she didn’t get blamed for some crazed kryvek’s deeds.

The bell rang cheerfully as she opened the door, bringing back the echo of her earlier annoyances. She knew her mood would cling to sour without a proper cup of tea, so she gave the bell a half-amused side-eye as she left.

*

For a small town somewhere at the edge of the known world, Drenburg had a surprisingly labyrinthine layout. Nyraleth was certain it stemmed from chaotic growth, lack of forethought, and general neglect of planning, but such knowledge hardly mattered when she had to navigate those erratic streets, some narrow, some slightly wider, but none seemingly capable of meeting at a straight corner.

Of course, it was her fault as well, and she cursed herself for thinking she could navigate a town that wasn’t hers and assume that cardinal orientation would suffice to find her way back to her inn. As a result, after several unfortunate turns, she considered herself lost.

And worse yet, that particular portion of Drenburg looked shabbier and shadier than her intended destination, and the darkening sky announced night was nigh. She cared little about what kind of disreputable individuals could lurk in the shadows, since most had enough self-preservation instincts to leave a sanguinist alone. Those that didn’t promptly removed themselves from society through their own deeds. What she worried about was not being able to find people to direct her back to the inn, as the prospect of wandering the city at night didn’t appeal to her.

Not to mention the kryvek supposedly roaming the streets. Against a kryvek, she wasn’t sure she stood a chance.

Her frustration growing, she took a random turn into an alley that seemed wider than the previous one. With little clue of where she was, this seemed like a direction as good as any, and perhaps some of the wider alleys connected to the main streets at some point.

Just like the last few streets, this one wasn’t lit either, and the laundry hanging on the lines stretched between the four-story buildings overhead made it even dimmer. Nyraleth wouldn’t be surprised if the sun only peeked in around noon each day.

She expected trash to gather between the piles of crates and barrels filled with questionable content, but the alley was quite tidy, telling that the local people might be poor but still took care of their neighborhood. Perhaps someone could be around at such late hour, returning home or peeking out a window, and she could ask for directions.

The man lying deeper in the alley was likely too drunk to help her if the puddle under him didn’t bother him enough to get up.

As she approached, Nyraleth cursed and adjusted her assumption. The man wasn’t drunk. He was dead, and the puddle was his own blood. He lay on his back, his calm face contradicting the carnage that started below his jawline.

She narrowed her eyes at the multiple wounds. Details blurred in the dusk, but she expected them to be stabs, erratic and chaotic. Just like a crazed kryvek would attack. Yet the calm face seemed odd as if the victim wasn’t conscious during that barrage. Perhaps, after all, he was a drunkard unfortunate enough to pass out only to be found by a kryvek. His clothes were patched but clean, which suggested a poor man but one who took good care of himself rather than someone who sought oblivion in cheap spirits.

“Odd,” she whispered.

Yet she didn’t come closer to smell the alcohol on him or see the details of the attack. If someone caught her snooping around, they would likely accuse her of the deed rather than listen to explanation. Besides, even if she wanted to help, she wasn’t an investigator, and things that seemed peculiar to her could make perfect sense to a keht accustomed to murders and their happenstances.

With a sigh, she continued down the alley. She’d rather let local authorities know about the dead, but raising an alarm would do her no good and direct suspicions toward her. As the shopkeeper had said, with a kryvek about, people would mistrust any sanguinist, justly or not. Besides, in the morning, someone was bound to find the body anyway. With the kryvek already gone, a night’s delay wouldn’t make much difference.

Lights flickered at the end of the alley, startling her at first, but then she recognized the warm glow of street lanterns. With a smile, she stepped onto a bigger street, her foot immediately sinking into a patch of deeper mud, and she shook her head. The town had advanced lanterns that, from what she could see, used the best practices of sanguine arts, and yet it didn’t bother with street maintenance. In early spring, when clouds brought more rainfall than snow, some mud was bound to happen, but that—she glanced at her boot, caked all the way to her ankle—was slightly ridiculous.

On the other hand, if kryvek problems were frequent in the area, it made sense that people wanted light before wanting sturdy surfaces to walk on. Nyraleth glanced over her shoulder. Not that it had helped the poor man back in the alley… One day, perhaps, Drenburg would be able to afford lanterns in all the streets.

She stepped onto the street. Most shops were already closed, dark windows and signs over them illegible in the light of dusk, and there weren’t many people in the street, but she recognized where she was. Her inn was only a few blocks away.

Paying attention to avoid what looked like the deepest patches of mud and water, she made her way up the street, thinking about the cup of hot tea she was about to brew. No, she corrected herself—a whole pot would be better.

The inn was soon within sight, the letters of its sign magically enhanced to guide travelers even in the dark. It was a three-story building, taking the lot between two narrow townhouses, with a small inner yard and a stable to the back.

Nyraleth stepped into the courtyard, the inn’s welcoming lights soothing her frustrations with the day’s fruitless search and general ire with Kerrick, who’d not only put her in this situation but also refused to be found. She smirked. The latter might not be entirely his fault, as she suspected he’d gotten himself in some kind of trouble, but given Kerrick’s long history of enthusiastically seeking trouble, some ire was justified.

She was in the middle of the courtyard, ready to head for the inn’s entrance, when a group of men and women poured out of the inn.

They had matching armor, and though they wore no crests nor symbols, they were too disciplined to be some band of mercenaries. As she looked over her shoulder, more lined up behind her, making it clear they had been waiting, likely for her. It meant that they must be local kehts, who were usually tasked with patrolling streets, upholding the law, catching wrongdoers, investigating crimes, and, in a pinch, even defending their cities or towns from outside threats. And apparently they considered her such a threat.

“Stop there, blood caster!” a man shouted as they circled her, weapons drawn, shields up. “Surrender peacefully, and you’ll get a fair trial.”

Nyraleth arched an eyebrow, now surrounded by somber men and women who seemed determined to take her by force if need be, and she couldn’t help wondering how exactly they planned on achieving such a feat. One would not go against a sanguinist without at least one caster on their own side, preferably two. And if they thought she was a kryvek, three or four would be advisable. Someone who murdered people in empty alleys would likely have no qualms about slaughtering some town kehts just to get away.

They all stood motionless for a while until one brave woman approached slowly with her sword drawn and eyes on Nyraleth’s blood beads.

Nyraleth raised her finger, and they all steeled themselves. It would be amusing if the whole situation wasn’t just a waste of her time, adding to her general annoyance with anything Drenburg.

“I’ll take them off myself,” she said as she looked the woman in the eye.

The last thing she needed was some stranger trying to cut her bracelets and belt with that big blade while still trying to keep too much distance for the requisite precision such task would need. One wrong move and not only would the beads scatter, meaning she would have to find them later, but there was also the risk of injury by inexperienced guards in the process.

They all hesitated, and the man who called her a blood caster looked like he was about to protest, but the woman who approached gave the slow, wary nod of a seasoned keht who’d dealt with too many difficult prisoners to argue when one didn’t cause a fuss. That she was the one to risk her life coming so close to sequester the beads likely had something to do with it as well. It was easy for the man to shout his demands from what he considered a safe distance, while getting closer to a suspected kryvek meant a more levelheaded approach—or, as Nyraleth suspected, an approach focused on one’s self-preservation.

Nyraleth undid the clasps on her bracelets and then the belt, slow enough to avoid startling anyone. Each blood bead on the sturdy leather straps emanated power, and she almost sighed. As every sanguinist, she didn’t enjoy parting with her collection.

“I expect that none will be missing when they are returned,” she said as she handed them over to the woman.

That earned her a surprised glance, as if the keht didn’t expect such confidence.

Nyraleth then slowly lifted her hands, keeping them up and away from her body, and everyone seemed to relax at least a little. They clearly had no knowledge of sanguinists. Even without her beads, she had enough of her own blood to kill them and flee if she chose, and her hands being up meant nothing—she could still cast.

They were lucky that she wasn’t the kryvek for which they must have been searching, because otherwise, there would have been carnage.

* * *

If you enjoyed this excerpt, head over to Kickstarter and click “Notify me at launch” (if it’s your first time on Kickstarter, you need to create an account first) to receive project updates and, of course, be notified when the project launches.