CHAPTER 1
The most vexing part about being an invisible thief was that if I met my demise during a mission—this mission, for example—my friends would have no way to retrieve my body or even know exactly what had befallen me. The jutting stone wall of Barviel Castle was slippery in places. If I fell while scaling it, no one would notice my broken body heaped on the ground.
I probably thought about ways to die more often than was healthy for a young woman of my station. Most noblewomen concerned themselves with safer things, like embroidery and finding husbands.
But then I, Lady Marcella Thornton, wasn’t a real noblewoman, not one born with a title. I owed the renegades for my escape from the lowborn rank of a servant. I repaid them with theft, in this case, a scroll that would reveal the location and number of the king’s troops around the border of Marseden. The renegades frequently took refugees from the servant class to that country, and they liked to avoid troops whenever possible.
I moved upward slowly. One hand in front of the other, one foothold, then the next, scrabbling up until I was level with Lord Bettencourt’s balcony. I wished I’d brought a hook for therope in my pack. That would’ve been the sensible thing to do, but hooks were noisy, and, once something was more than two feet away from my body, it became visible. So, I’d determined to scale Barviel Castle unaided. The climb hadn’t appeared that difficult from the ground.
Foolish overconfidence.
I needed to grab the side of the railing. If I missed, if I lost my balance, I’d fall to my death.
Instead of lunging for the balcony, I stayed where I was, clinging to the wall. Death was such an unpleasant thing to consider.
From a place in my mind that I could never completely banish, I heard Ronan’s chiding voice telling me that nerves would be my undoing.Back when we were children, he would tease me and make a game of whatever I feared until my fright seemed ridiculous, and I was forced to act just to silence him.
I paused and looked for a bit of humor to distract me. If I fell to my death, at least my sprawled invisible corpse might trip soldiers. Of course, eventually, they’d throw a cloak on top of me, see the outline of a person, and carry my body to Lord Bettencourt’s wizard for a disclosing spell. If that was the case, I hoped the soldiers found me before I’d decomposed to some gruesome state. I have many faults; vanity is one of them.
I let go of my hold on the stone and practically flung myself at the balcony. I grabbed the railing and hauled myself over. My landing wasn’t as graceful or as silent as I’d planned, and the fear of plunging to my death was immediately overtaken by the fear of discovery.
Had the noise awakened Lord Bettencourt? I crouched, still as a gargoyle, staring at the balcony door and straining to hear any sound from the room.
If I rushed inside and put a dagger into the lord’s throat, he wouldn’t be able to call his guards. I could take the scroll andflee. If, however, Lord Bettencourt managed to alert his guards, his wizard wouldn’t be far behind. A disclosing spell would erase my invisibility and leave me vulnerable.
Besides, I’d never killed a man and didn’t fancy taking up the habit tonight. Cook Lindon, who’d been a mother to me after mine had died, told me that when murderers passed out of this life, they were cursed to walk the dark places of the earth, always trudging, never resting.
I’d walked enough dark places already.
No noises came from the room: no bark of a dog, no sound of stirring.
My first piece of luck. My second was that not even the smallest magical protection guarded the balcony door. Lord Bettencourt was either careless or optimistic in supposing the sheer castle wall wouldn’t accommodate climbers. Well, perhaps most people wouldn’t attempt it, but I’d grown up scaling the walls of Docendum Castle.
I pulled out my unlocking charm, a small wooden horse I wore on a string around my neck. Back when Ronan was thirteen, he’d whittled it while memorizing spells. He didn’t think the horse was well-made, and I’d had to rescue the figure from the kindling pile.
I uttered the words of the unlocking spell and tapped the horse against the balcony door. The figure thinned and lengthened, changing into the form of a key. I opened the door and slipped inside.
The coals in the fireplace burned low, but a wizards’ orb sat on the table, throwing out just enough light to see by. A large four-poster bed dominated the room, its dark wood carved into elaborate peaks. The curtains, tied back, revealed the bed was empty and the blankets undisturbed.
The lord was quite late in retiring to his chamber. Probably out gambling, drinking, or visiting a mistress. I thankedwhatever vices had called him away. Stealing from an empty room was much easier.
Alaric, who was the one who gave me these assignments, had said Lord Bettencourt kept his documents in a small wooden chest with a brass lock. I wouldn’t have much luck searching among Lord Bettencourt’s belongings in the room’s low light. I pulled my finding charm from my pocket, a thumb-long shell bleached white with hints of sunrise orange at its tips. Another of Ronan’s gifts.
Sentimentality is another one of my faults.
I held out the shell and whispered the words of the spell to make it glow. “Find a wooden chest with brass fittings.”
At once, the tip of the shell turned in my palm, pointing to the door of an adjoining room. I padded there and entered a dressing room. The shell pointed toward the man’s wardrobe. It might not be the scroll’s hiding place. The wardrobe was also made of wood and had a brass lock. Finding charms had their limitations.
I changed the horse into a key and opened the wardrobe. As I slid the charm back into the neck of my tunic, I wondered what Ronan would think of me using his gifts as wizards’ charms. He’d no doubt be angry. But then I suppose that was the point of choosing them. Pettiness is another one of my faults.
Although, in this instance, such pettiness bit me rather than Ronan. Every time I stole something, I thought of him. Wherever he was, he most assuredly wasn’t thinking of me.
I pushed aside robes trimmed with the fur of some unfortunate animal and silk tunics so smooth they felt like water running over my fingers. I didn’t expect to find more than the court’s latest fashions, but there in the back corner was a chest, a stout wooden thing that seemed to be squatting defensively, waiting to snap at my hand.
Not a very secure hiding place for documents, but the choice showed that Lord Bettencourt trusted his chamberlain. His servant must know its location. Lord Bettencourt might blame him when the box went missing.
I picked up the chest, ready to slip it into the pack slung on my back. Then I thought again of the chamberlain whom Lord Bettencourt trusted so much that he left his lockbox amongst his robes. I knew nothing about the chamberlain except he wasn’t working with the renegades, but that didn’t necessarily make him pro-loyalist.