34
The wind slid over the Smith’s smooth stone entry stoop, the sun’s warmth long leached away. It was night, and the rock was a cold reflection of the starless sky. The wind hadn’t thought the solange-eyed one would hunch in his fortress like a king slouched on his throne, yet it could hear his rumbling voice breaching the front door.
The wind huffed, nudging at the metal. It was the all-seeing eye. The last time the wind had seen this golden eye, it had swung on silent hinges guarding the Night Den. It sniffed, finding traces of fire and Furtig. The Night Den was gone, but it seemed the solange-eyed one had carried its door back to his new home.
The all-seeing eye winked, and the wind laughed. It would only let a creature pass if it had good inside. A drop was enough. The solemn one barely managed to slip past the all-seeing eye. The rocklike one sipped Furtig to fool the eye—the only good in him was through what he stole or consumed. The solange-eyed one had not tasted good. He had tasted wrong, twisted, and cruel.
But . . . the wind paused, wondering. Why had he welded this door to his fortress? Was he afraid of evil entering, or was he afraid of himself? Was it a daily test he forced himself to pass every time he stepped over the threshold?
The wind sighed. What would the solange-eyed one do if the door barred him from his own rightful home?
It didn’t know.
The wind knocked against the door. Knocking was polite. Then it slipped through the keyhole, wound itself around the steel mechanisms, and slipped into the Smith’s home.
It followed the sound of the solange-eyed one’s voice. This fortress was not as welcoming as the boy’s home—destroyed now—nor as beautiful as the Bards’—burned now—nor as interesting as the Clarks’—buried now. It was a hollow sort of place that echoed like the wind whistling through a carved-out bone. There were weapons on the walls: shields, spears, swords. There were medieval tapestries, renaissance paintings, and suits of armor. There were no soft, silky curtains to flutter, nor velvet couches to stroke, nor even silk rugs to rub its belly on. It was a hard, unyielding, Smith-like place.
Perhaps the reason the wind could never understand the Smiths was because there wasn’t a single cushion to curl up on, not a bit of sunlight streaming over a window seat, and not one linen curtain to flutter through. There were hard, echoing walls, sharp, biting blades, and uncomfortable furniture. Spartan. Stoic. No honey-soaked crumpets or afternoon tea. No perfumes or floral scents. No soft laughter or music to swirl in.
The only thing the Smiths had was battle-minded men and women encased in battle-ready walls.
The wind sighed.
The solange-eyed one had once been a sensual creature. What was the Night Den but an ode to creation’s sensual pleasures? But it seemed he’d thrown off the velvet sprawl, the solange scents, and the hedonistic mist for . . .
The wind huffed and brushed against the solange-eyed one’s jaw.
For . . . this.
“We’ve taken Istanbul?” The solange-eyed one’s voice echoed through the stone hall, and the wind shivered in its electric thunder.
The room was crowded with Smiths. There were enough to fit on a city bus. The wind had wondered if the Smiths would accept the solange-eyed one as their principal. It shouldn’t have. The Smiths blended family hierarchy, blood loyalty, and military-mindedness into a tradition that meant as soon as the wolflike one had declared the solange-eyed one his heir, all Smiths accepted him as their leader. No questions. No doubt. Only loyalty.
A Smith in black tactical gear, who looked as if she’d been carved in granite, gave a sharp nod. “Yes, sir.”
The wind flinched at the whiplike snap of her voice.
“London?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Beijing, Saint Petersburg, Sydney?”
“Yes, sir.”
This was nothing new. Nothing interesting. Smiths were always taking cities and trying to conquer the world. Besides, whenever the crown changed hands, the new head always wrestled cities away from the old.
Centuries ago, there was a human nation who followed a similar tactic. Whenever the monarch died, all his retainers, servants, and loyal staff were killed. Entire cities’ worth of people were often slaughtered during the transition of power. Sometimes, the monarch’s entire army was buried alive. It was a common thing. In this nation, thousands were often buried alive for something as simple as looking in the monarch’s direction. When the king died, his royal city was abandoned. The buildings were left empty. The temples left bare. They were abandoned so the earth could swallow them whole. Afterward, a new city was built for the new monarch.
This was similar to what the Smiths were doing now. The solange-eyed one had been crowned, and the drive to consolidate power was too strong for any ruling conjurer to resist. It was an instinct that drove them as soon as the weight of the crown sank onto their bare heads.
This happened every hundred years. The Smith would wrest control of the world’s cities and governments. He would cut the strings of the Bard’s power and tie nations to himself. It would happen willingly or forcefully, but it would happen.
In all the years the wind had watched, no one had ever been able to stand against the turning tide as the crown of illusion settled its power on the new ruling family.
The solange-eyed one’s eyes narrowed on the illusion spread across the hall. It was a large, flat map of the world, floating over the cold stone floor like a magic carpet. Some of the landforms were illuminated in a bright blue light, but others remained dark.
“Don’t worry, brother,” the battle-hardened Smith said happily. “We’ll liberate them all.”
