Silver Tongue

By Gabrielle R Herd

DEATH PLAGUES THE MIND AND FEAR FESTERS IN THE HEART OF THE CITY.

For the last five years, as a Sister of Amara, Ceridwen has dedicated her life to the purpose of her order. The life of a healer is demanding, requiring discipline, commitment and sacrifice; virtues she once lived by for a different, darker purpose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peopleplanetprofit Pty Ltd
• Release date: Jul 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645495119

Book preview



SILVER TONGUE SILVER TONGUE

To the girl I was at seventeen.

You did it.



Group Image GABRIELLE R HERD GABRIELLE R HERD

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

PART TWO

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

PART THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



PART ONE

THE

SISTERS OF AMARA

CHAPTER ONE

The Last Vihaan

Snow caught in Ceridwen’s eyelashes as she placed a steady hand on the deceased faerie’s chest. She blinked away the feather light touch, her lashes wet, and moved her pale hands to the victim’s throat, feeling with two fingers for the pulse she knew was no longer there. She was aware of the crowd watching behind her, shoving at each other to get a better view of the blood and gore. Officers dressed in royal blue uniforms trimmed with speckled silver created a barrier between the city residents and the crime scene she currently knelt in the middle of. The Officers barely moved against the shoving, their faces stone cold and eyes seeing beyond the curious faces before them.

After securing the gruesome scene and beginning the lengthy process of documenting the evidence, the Officers in blue - as Ceridwen liked to call the city Police - called upon the Sisters of Amara for further investigation. It was why she was now kneeling in a pool of half dried faerie blood. It stained the long skirts of her dark dress and the white ruffle cuffs of her long sleeves. The smell, like that of pungent sea water, shoved up her nostrils and she grimaced, holding her breath. She could almost taste it on her tongue. The thought alone had her stomach rolling.

The crowd had gathered at an alarming rate after word spread that a faerie was found dead - murdered - on the border between the western and southern quarter. Inside the city walls. And the young faerie at Ceridwen’s knees was not only a faerie, but an assassin. Upon arriving at the scene, she’d recognised the skin-tight white leather, now stained green, covering him from neck to toe, immediately identifying him as one of the infamous Silver Tongues. The sight had shocked her fellow Sisters more than it had her. Encouraging them to walk through the scene and speak with the first Officers and witnesses on sight had been too easy. They’d left Ceridwen to examine the body alone, to determine whether there was some part of the faerie that still lingered. 

The Silver Tongues were Eve City’s deadliest assassin guild. She hadn’t seen one of them in five years, and while to some a dead assassin was of the norm, it certainly was not in Eve City. It’d been six decades since any person had died of ill means within the city walls, although the same could not be said of the towns in the snowy plains beyond. It was a feat in itself considering the organised crime beneath the cobblestone path at their feet. Unlike most of the city, Ceridwen knew of their King’s deal with the Silver Tongues. If he ensured they remained in business, funding their immoral craft, they in turn would take their business to Orion City, Eve City’s rival. The King had a long lasting feud with the affluent city and their ruler, the Imperatrix. Like a bratty child, the King never ceased to grasp an opportunity in striking Orion City’s ruler.

Brows nudged together, Ceridwen removed her small pack from her shoulder and placed it on the path behind her, careful to avoid the blood. It was everywhere; smeared on the closest brick buildings and dribbled in long, thick puddles on the ground. It led deep into the alley to her right. It’d clearly been a gruesome slaughter, but the faerie got in a few slices of his own, for there was glistening crimson blood among the green.

Human blood.

Ceridwen turned away from the alley, to the three gaping holes in the faerie’s abdomen, and swallowed. He’d been impaled. Three times. The accuracy was uncanny. All three holes were in a too-straight line from one side of his abdomen to the other. If she leaned closer, she could see beyond the torn flesh and dried blood and see his organs, already turning a pellucid purple. Snow continued to drop around them, mere white flecks until it met stone and melted. It mingled with the blood, the red dispersing where it and the snow connected. It reminded her of the watercolour artworks in the Museum of Rare Art and Antiquities.

The thought had her raising her head, searching for the closest Officer in blue.

You there! Ceridwen waved one green stained hand in the air.

A lone Officer leaned against the wall to the left of the alley opening, the only patch clean of blood. He was staring at his feet, frowning. Ceridwen shouted again, but still she could not catch the Officer’s gaze.

Before she could think of the repercussions, Ceridwen snatched a roll of clean bandages from her satchel and pegged it at his head. The Officer flinched. He looked from the roll of bandages, unravelling at his feet, to Ceridwen and scowled.

Ceridwen pointed to the sky. This snow is ruining my crime scene, she snapped.

The Officer raised a pale brow, his strawberry blonde curls swept over the other. And what do you intend I do about it? I can’t control the weather.

Cerdiwen narrowed her eyes at him. Fetch me a shelter of some sort. Something large enough to cover this area. When the Officer continued to lean against the wall, lulling his head against dark brick, she leaned back on her heels and simply said with a shrug, The King would not do well to hear one of his Officers is impeding a crime scene, especially if the news came from a Sister of Amara. Even more so from the-

The Officer was quick to push off the wall before she could go on. His skin flushed and eyes wide, he stumbled a few steps before shoving through the crowd, off to search for some form of shelter, and Ceridwen smirked. Fool, she thought to herself. The people in this city had always been easy to manipulate, though it did work in her favour.

Cooling the frustration boiling under her skin, Ceridwen took a deep breath and slipped into a familiar calm. She let it wash over her until her eyelids turned heavy and the raucous of the crowd turned muffled. She adjusted the faerie’s hood, revealing pale green skin, and gently placed her fore finger and middle finger on his temple. It was perhaps the only part of him that wasn’t covered in blood. Eyes closed, her eyelids twitched as her soul parted from her body and she fell into the familiar darkness that was the abyss.

Ceridwen was no ordinary human. She was the last of the rare Vihaan; spiritual beings who possessed the ability to entwine their souls with another and, in doing so, they could view the entirety of that soul’s life. It was a gift people killed for, a gift war was waged for. Passed down from grandmother to granddaughter, she was the last of her kind after her grandmother’s passing. She supposed she should be grateful the gift was passed down to her instead of her mother.

Despite the faerie’s still heart, his soul continued to cling to his body, unable to let go and forget the life he’d lived. Ceridwen was glad for it. She lunged for him, spearing out with her mind and soul, and the pair became one. She could feel him there, always out of reach. It was like the eerie feeling of someone watching her, someone she could not see but knew was there. No matter how many times she entwined her soul with another, the feeling always took her a few seconds to accustom to before she could move on.

Ceridwen did not hesitate despite expecting to see the worst of this faerie’s soul. He was a Silver Tongue assassin after all. Most were born into the guild, but the few who were granted membership were of the cruelest and most dangerous men and women. People not to cross.

This faerie was born into the guild. Images of a young boy with green skin and pointed ears flashed behind her eyes. He skulked through the shadows of alleys, a plain dagger of sharp steel in each hand, his white hood pulled far over his face. She watched as he learned to wield a knife, then as he endured the cutting of his wings, for an assassin could not bear such a luxury. Then he was sneaking through the city sewers, out of the Underground and to the city surface, scurrying after what appeared to be a young girl. It was like flicking through the pages of a book, watching the entirety of his life unravel before her eyes.

She took hold of the abyss, flicking through the memories at a rapid pace, but not before catching a glimpse of moon-white hair. It was the smallest of glimpses, yet the sight set her off balance, her soul slipping and falling in the vast well of memories. It was like falling through a worm hole, her stomach flipping violently and the air whooshing from her lungs. She flung her arms wide, but there was nothing here to catch her fall, to stop her. Ceridwen snapped her eyes shut, imagining the faerie’s memories were stored within a book, each page holding a memory, each chapter holding a key stage in his life. The book was not as thick as she’d hoped.

Her plummet came to a slow as she held onto the last page of the book with such force she was sure it would fall along with her. Her eyes flew open and she realised she was no longer falling, but dangling above open air. But it was the moving image on the page before her that had her chest heaving and lips parting in a low gasp.

It was the last memory before the faerie’s death.

Instead of watching from afar as she had done with his other memories, Ceridwen heaved her body up, arms trembling, and fell through the book head first. She rolled onto stone cobblestones and watched as the faerie emerged from a residence and slipped into the night.

The residence was from the western quarter of Eve City, not far from where she knelt in present time. She recognised the tall, unit-like buildings lining the road, built of a reddish-brown brick and grey stone. On the opposite side of the street was a retaining wall of large rocks, a large homestead built upon it. The lamp posts lining the road were off, leaving the silver moon to light the assassin’s way, not that he would need it with his keen eyesight.

She followed the faerie as he snuck through the streets, clinging to the shadows where he could and becoming one with ice and snow where he couldn’t avoid the moonlight. Despite his enhanced hearing, every few seconds the faerie would sneak a glance over his shoulder. His face was hidden within the shadows of his hood, but Ceridwen did not need to see the fear on his face to know of his terror. Their souls were combined for the time being, she felt his fear as he did, and, eventually, she found herself glancing over her shoulder too, but for what she did not know. What could possibly have a trained assassin, a Silver Tongue, in such raw terror?

The faerie’s movements were becoming sloppy. His footfalls were heavier, either ignoring or too frightened to remember his training embedded in him from birth. It had Ceridwen biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from cursing aloud, to stop her from catching up to him and beating some good sense into him. But it was no use. She was within a memory, not real time that could be altered by her presence. She could not be seen, touched or heard here, and was glad for it.

The assassin turned a sharp corner and Ceridwen recognised it to be the alley she currently knelt before in present time. She stopped at the alley opening, peering around the corner, the brick wall rough against the skin of her palms, and watched the faerie stop. It was a dead end. The faerie took a step back, his muscles locking up, and slowly turned to face her. That was when she heard it too, the noise that had the faerie freezing with horror. It was a deep guttural growl sounding from behind her. She too turned and even though she knew she could not be seen, heard or touched, her breath caught in her throat at what stood on the opposite side of the street. She could not tell if it was her own true fear or if it was the faerie’s leaking into her.

The monster clung to the shadows, avoiding the light as if the mere touch would sear it. It was a mass of gangly limbs despite its sheer size, taller than that of the doused lamp post it stood beside. Only then did it click for Ceridwen, that all of the lamp posts, even the several further down the street, were out.

Behind her, the faerie whimpered.

Please, he whispered, and Ceridwen cringed.

‘Please’ was not a word familiar with assassins. It felt awfully wrong to hear it from his lips, reminding her that he was only a teenage boy despite his occupation and the doom awaiting him.

The monster moved then, on powerful legs like that of a faun, and stalked for its prey. It entered the light of the moon and Ceridwen stumbled back into the wall, staring up at it with a slack jaw. The monster was upon the faerie in a matter of steps, the ground quaking beneath its feet and she could not fathom how no one had heard the racket. She gripped the edge of the alley, holding on for dear life as the creature swiped at the faerie. Each swipe of its claws was swift and calculated and if the assassin had been human, he would already be dead.

Ceridwen was not looking to the assassin, who was now trembling as he palmed his daggers. She knew his fate and there was nothing to be done for it. It was the monster she could not tear her wide eyes from. It looked as if its skin had been torn away to reveal inky insides, corded with muscle and pulsing like a ticking time bomb. Black smoke rippled from its back and its head… by the Goddesses of old, its head looked to be a cross between an antelope and a human. Horns curved from the crown of it, halting at an odd angle and shot straight out, far enough for Ceridwen herself to reach if the monster was much shorter.

The faerie was trapped in the alley. She inched closer, ignoring the blaring warnings in her head to stay away and watch only from a great distance, and circled the monster with a tilt of her head. It was nothing she had seen, heard, or read of, not even in the library within the healer’s Cathedral. Not even Orion City held such monsters, and she had seen all Orion City had to offer. She had never travelled across the sea, to the land called Raja, but she could not picture the city of rich culture and wealth owning such monsters either. Subconsciously, Ceridwen was aware that beyond the abyss, in present time, the crowd had grown louder, but she furrowed her brows further and pushed the scene onward.

The monster swiped again and the faerie ducked just in time, his preternatural speed a short blessing. Its hand grazed the stone wall where he’d been mere seconds ago. The faerie shuffled back, daggers angled and knees bent.

Ceridwen closed in on the monster, until, if she wanted, she could reach out her hand and brush its peculiar skin with her fingertips. It glinted against the moonlight and shifted like water with every step the beast took. As she reached out to determine if the monster’s skin did in fact feel as smooth and wet as it looked, it turned on her.

It was common knowledge that when one of the Vihaan was to entwine their soul with another, they could not interact with anything or anyone. Nor could anything or anyone interact with them. It was what made them unique, different from other spiritual beings like Psychics and Oracles. Where they needed herbs, potions, or technology to see or visit the past, the Vihaan wielded their natural-born abilities without limit or danger.

There was nothing in Ceridwen’s training, nothing in known history, that could warn her or prepare her for the monster to not only sense her presence, but for it to physically see her. Something that she’d believed to be impossible.

Despite herself, Ceridwen blanched and retreated until she too was backed into the alley with no where to turn. She was frozen under the monster’s stare, couldn’t even move her hand, or fingertips for that matter, to grasp the dagger hidden in the folds of her skirt. She wondered, in that moment, if this was how the monster managed to kill the assassin. If, with one look, it could stop a person cold, long enough for it to slaughter them.

Mouth dry, Ceridwen pushed at the memory to halt so that she could escape back into her physical body, but then something flickered in the corner of her eye and she paused. It was the faerie. Seeing that the beast was occupied, but not what it was occupied by, he sprinted for the alley opening, bolting past the beast at great speed. But it was no use. Without removing its gaze from Ceridwen, the monster lashed out one arm and, with a hand of three thick claws, embedded them in the faerie’s abdomen.

The faerie crumpled, a piercing shriek tearing from his throat. Its attention taken from Ceridwen, the monster rounded on the faerie, thrusting its claws deeper. Emerald green blood flowed down his legs, soaking his white leathers, and ran down the monster’s arm in rivulets. It leaned in close, taking a deep sniff, its dark eyes rolling to the back of its head.

Ceridwen considered snapping back into her body, returning to the present now that the monster’s attention was solely focused on the faerie and not her. But she had not seen all she had come to retrieve and, beyond that, there was the new mystery of how this monster could see her. So she buried her fear and took the dagger from her skirts. She doubted it would do much damage, but knew the tough leather of the hilt between her fingers would calm her nerves at best, and protect her at worst. She bent her knees, becoming one with the shadows in the far corners of the alley and watched as the creature dragged the assassin along the cobblestones, its claws still hooked in his stomach.

Ceridwen tried to ignore his cries with every thrust of the claws in his gut. It felt all too real, even though the logical part of her knew this was only a memory. The faerie’s memory.

The monster dumped the faerie on the edge of the road, where yellow light should’ve emanated from the closest lamp post. Ceridwen’s brows furrowed. How peculiar and sloppy of such an obviously ancient beast to kill its victim in plain sight. Her eyes darted beyond the monster, to the dark road. She could not see much of the street from where she hid, but she could not fathom the absence of the Officers in blue. That no one had heard the faerie’s cries or seen the monster out their windows. That this faerie’s death was taking much longer than she had anticipated.

Ceridwen was careful to stay out of the monster’s sight, afraid that at the slightest flash of movement it would round on her again. Hidden from the moonlight, she pressed herself against the wall…

Ceridwen froze, dread coiling in the pit of her gut. The wall beneath her palms was dry. Green blood coated the alley floors, no crimson as of yet. She did not think the monster would bleed red.

But she would.

She snapped her eyes shut, gathering her strength, and made to rein herself back into her body, but a shadow loomed over her. It was instinct to throw herself to the side, and good thing too, for the monster’s claw was now embedded in the wall where she’d been standing, green blood an iridescent coating on the monster’s scales. It rounded on her, its glistening black eyes widening in quiet fury.

She could do nothing, did not even have time to turn away, as the monster dove for her once more and its claw found its mark. Just as the faerie before her, Ceridwen found herself speared on the monster’s claw. She stared down at herself, at the black claw that’d pierced the fabric of her corset and dress, and then at the monster who she could’ve sworn was grinning at her, as if it too knew that this was impossible.

The shouting in present time became louder, like a dull roar in her ears. Every breath, every slight shift of her body had her nerves on fire. Ceridwen gripped the claw with two hands. Just the mere action had her screaming through gritted teeth. Only then did the monster retract its claw and she was sent careening into the ground, blood splattering against the cobblestones at her feet and the brick wall at the monster’s back.

Ceridwen could not move, because of the blood loss or shock, most likely both. Her vision blurred, the monster becoming two, and she felt the heavy tug of darkness, of sleep, beckoning her.

She did not look to the monster again. Ceridwen mustered what little strength she had left. It was enough, for when she opened her eyes the monster was gone and she was staring into the worried faces of her Sisters.

CHAPTER TWO

The Mother of Amara

The cafeteria was abuzz with healers in search of lunch. Ceridwen always thought the dining hall looked more like a library or a study hall than a cafeteria. It stretched on for two hundred feet, dark wood panelling covering the walls, and low hung chandeliers of white crystals painting an eerie glow over the hooded heads of her Sisters. At the front of the hall, before the wall of stained windows, was a long table set up with dishes of pea soup and slices of warm bread. Four senior healers stood behind it, their deep blue hoods raised to their brow, and greeted every woman and girl they served. They spooned large ladles of soup into empty bowls, careful not to dip their ruffled sleeves into the boiling liquid.

She knew she was staring, that at some point the senior healer would look up beyond her hood and meet her sad eyes. But she could not bring herself to look away, not even to blink. The woman was a faerie, like the assassin Ceridwen had tended to mere hours ago now. The woman, her deep green lips curved in a reserved but pleasant smile, continued with her task, unaware of Ceridwen’s attention, or where her thoughts had led her.

Her wound was still a phantom touch against the fabric of the new, clean dress hugging her waist. She touched it with tentative fingers, pressing at the mended skin, half expecting to bring her fingers before her eyes and see them coated in scarlet. The moment she’d snapped back into her body she’d found her Sisters above her, calling her name. All three of them had to heal her at once to stop the bleeding and knit torn muscle and flesh back together. Her organs had been obliterated, they’d explained, and it was a wonder she’d been alive at all when she’d returned to them. Something about the abyss and not being entirely within her body, they said, had kept her alive. They’d fabricated her organs anew right there, in front of the still cooling corpse of the faerie and the slack-faced crowd circling them, the Officers still holding firm.

Ceridwen looked to her pale hands, splotches of pink blooming on her dry skin. She’d scrubbed her hands raw before meeting with Yvaine, her roommate, who was currently laughing at a joke the healer beside her cracked. It was a hearty laugh for such a reserved person. Usually the sound would have Ceridwen herself breaking into a grin, but she couldn’t tear the faerie’s terror stricken face from her mind.

The assassin had been dead for some time before she’d arrived, she’d known it even before entwining her soul with his. It was a horrible thought, knowing that he’d died alone and terrified. The monster had seen her, scented her, touched her, but the faerie had not. She considered herself an expert in separating her emotions from her line of work, especially in such dire situations, but for the life of her she could not think of anything else. It’d been six decades since someone had died of ill means inside Eve City's walls. She could only imagine what the Mother of Amara must be dealing with.

Beside her, Ceridwen’s fellow Sisters chatted about their mornings. All three of the women who’d accompanied her to the crime scene that morning were sat at the table, telling the other’s of the deceased faerie. She stared at the centre of the long, hardwood table, her jaw clenched.

What are you thinking about?

Ceridwen blinked. Yvaine had scooted to the end of the bench. She now sat opposite her, her chin propped on her fist and tilted her head, nodding at Ceridwen’s hand.

If you keep twisting that ring, you’ll burn a hole through your skin, she said.

Ceridwen shrugged and lifted a spoon of pea soup to her mouth. Steam rolled off the liquid, fanning her dry lips. It burned her tongue, but she embraced it. She plunked her spoon back in the bowl and swirled the liquid inside.

Is it the body? Yvaine pressed, leaning over the table to peer at Ceridwen’s bowed head. I remember the first time I accompanied our Sisters. The first time I saw a corpse. Yvaine drained a spoon of her soup, her brown hair, like smooth caramel, falling over one shoulder. I wish I could say it gets easier.

Ceridwen bit her tongue and continued stirring her pea soup. The urge to smash her fist into the table, wood splitting the skin at her knuckles and pain shooting down her hand, was great.

It was not my first time, she ground out.

Yvaine’s brows narrowed, doubt swirling in her teal eyes. It wasn’t?

No. Ceridwen sighed through her nose. I’ve accompanied our Sisters, as well as the Mother of Amara, outside the city walls. To the town outside, remember?

The lie was too easy.

Yvaine bit her lip. So this time was… different?

Ceridwen shrugged again. Yvaine was the first Sister of Amara she’d met upon arriving at the healer’s Cathedral. The young woman spent most of her time reordering and shelving books within the Grand Spire; the tallest and deepest tower in the Cathedral, home to thousands of dusty tomes and scrolls. Despite her large amount of time spent in the darkness, Yvaine’s skin was still a radiant olive, unaffected by the shadows, unlike Ceridwen, though she supposed she had gained some colour over the last five years.

She shook her head, unsure what to say. She