The Clairvoyant Thief

Lord Arion

Lord Arion passed silently through the stone walls of Castle Caravelia. He yearned to feel the floor beneath his feet, to brush his fingers across the rough stone and feel their rough texture. But he was merely a wraith, disembodied and immaterial.

He rose and emerged through the floor above, stopping at the door to his daughter’s apartment. For a moment, he considered passing inside, but then he remembered the last time he had passed into that space. Sorrow pierced his ghostly heart as he recalled how she’d pored over the ancient tome of magic, the hideous black evil of the Serpent’s Eye desecrating her desk.

“Lyra, my child,” he whispered softly. “If only I could reach you.”

Of course, the awful truth was that she wasn’t beyond his reach. At any time, he could pierce the veil and speak to her one last time. In her current state, was he sure that she would listen? Would her father’s last words be enough to bring her back from the darkness? Or would she ignore him and continue on her chosen course?

He drifted down into the great hall, where courtiers mingled. Their idle chatter and vapid laughter hardly improved his mood. How many of them were secret allies of the Dark Brotherhood? How could they all carry on so blithely while darkness festered in their midst?

His gaze fell upon Lord Blackwood, deep in conversation with one of the king’s advisors. At the very sight of him, rage and despair warred within Arion’s heart.

“You monster,” he hissed. “You slew me in cold blood, and now you seek to ensnare my daughter? By all that is good and holy in this world, I swear that I will find a way to stop you!”

He paused, his gaze falling upon a cluster of mages engaged in hushed conversation near the hearth. One of them cast a sidelong glance at him, subtle enough that no one else noticed.

A clairvoyant, Lord Arion thought to himself. One with the magical gift to see and speak with the dead. Clairvoyance was rare, but not unheard of. Many of those who possessed the gift preferred to keep it secret, developing their other talents instead.

For a fleeting moment, Lord Arion considered approaching the mage. Yet a nagging suspicion stayed his hand. From observing Lord Blackwood, he knew that the Dark Brotherhood had already infiltrated the ranks of the kingdom’s magical elite. And of course, everyone else had their own devious schemes. Could he trust any of the clairvoyants at the court? No—the risk of exposing himself to his enemies was simply too great.

Dismayed, he drifted up from the hall, passing through the rafters and rough stone walls. So deeply did he brood over his troubled thoughts that he hardly noticed where he was going until he emerged in his daughter’s chamber, illuminated in the flickering light of a single candle. Lyra sat hunched over her desk, her midnight-black hair spilling over her shoulders. With one hand, she idly stroked the Serpent’s Eye.

“I will bring you justice, father,” she murmured. “I swear it.”

Arion’s heart clenched. “No!” he screamed. “My killer is Lord Blackwood, child! The very man you’ve chosen to make your mentor!”

Lyra shivered suddenly, wrapping her arms around her chest. “Are you here, Father?” she asked softly. “Sometimes, it almost seems like I can feel you.”

Lord Arion reached out to her, his ghostly fingers passing through her cheek. “I’m here, child,” he whispered.

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if she could feel his ethereal touch. But then, she shook her head and returned to her studies.

Unable to bear his helplessness any longer, Arion soared through the castle walls and up into the night sky. The city sprawled beneath him, the light of countless torches flickering in the shadowed streets.

There had to be someone down there who could help him reach out to his wayward daughter. But where?

Corin

Corin darted across the dark alley, leaping between the crates and barrels in his way. He slowed as he rounded the corner, careful to watch for any dangerous figures lurking in the shadows. But once he knew they were clear, he wore the shadows like an old familiar cloak over his threadbare rags.

“I told you,” he hissed under his breath. “I don’t do this anymore. Find someone else to help.”

The ghost of a middle-aged man followed him, his pudgy face creased with worry. “Please, young man. My daughter is in danger—you’re the only one who can help!”

Corin quickly scanned his surroundings, and not just for the usual threats. Anyone who saw him would think him mad—his ghostly companion was invisible to everyone else.

“Look,” he whispered harshly, “I’m sorry about Mariah. Truly, I am. But from what you’ve told me, I’m liable to end up floating face-down in the river if I go after her. And I rather like breathing.”

“But if you do nothing, she’ll die!”

Corin winced, though he did his best to hide it. “Yeah, well, we all go sooner or later. I’m not a hero. Why don’t you go ask someone respectable, with one of those big, fancy swords?”

“Do you think I haven’t tried? None of them can see or hear me. Only you have the gift!”

“Some gift,” Corin snorted, leaping over a putrid rivulet of freshly-dumped sewage. “All it’s ever brought me is trouble.”

His stomach growled. The only food he’d managed to scrounge up that day were some meager scraps from a refuse pile. Even when he managed to pinch a few silvers, the hunger always gnawed at him. It was his only constant companion in his hardscrabble existence—aside, of course, from the dead.

“Please,” the ghost moaned. “You are my daughter’s only hope.”

Corin clenched his jaw. Mariah was a friend, of a sort—at least, as much of a friend as one could have on the streets. He doubted she would come after him if their roles were reversed. But she might. Shouldn’t he… but no, every instinct screamed at him not to risk his neck. He hadn’t survived this long by always saying ‘yes’ to every ghost with a haunting sob story. Hadn’t he?

“Why do I always let myself get dragged into these things?” he muttered. The ghost’s face lit up immediately.

“Thank you, lad! You’ve no idea how much this means to—”

“Save it,” Corin growled. “Just guide me to her.”

The ghost nodded and led Corin deeper into the labyrinthine heart of the city’s slums. Worn and weathered buildings loomed over them, their once-grand facades now reduced to crumbling ruins. Shattered windows glinted in the moonlight, many boarded up with pinewood planks. The stench of mildew and raw sewage hung heavy in the air, so thick that it practically clung to Corin’s skin.

The ghost suddenly veered to the left, leading Corin towards a decrepit warehouse. A salty sea breeze from the harbor made its old, weathered boards groan ever so slightly.

“This is it,” the ghost whispered. “My daughter’s in there.”

Corin narrowed his eyes. “Your daughter got herself mixed up with Grim’s gang? Brilliant, that.”

“It wasn’t her fault! Times are hard, and—”

“Times are always hard,” Corin snapped. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair. “Look, if I do this—and that’s a big if—I’m gonna need more than just encouragement. You know the layout in there?”

“Aye, I’ll guide you. Just… please, save my little girl.”

Corin sighed. “I’ll do what I can. But don’t expect any miracles.”

The ghost’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Thank you, Corin. I knew I could count on you.”

Corin crept along the warehouse’s outer wall toward a rickety ladder. Pausing only to test if it would hold his weight, he nimbly scaled the rungs, slipping through a small hatch into a dark and dusty hayloft.

The pungent smell of moldy straw assaulted him as he crawled forward on his belly, peering through gaps in the floorboards. Mariah’s father hovered nearby, his ghostly form passing effortlessly through the wooden beams.

“There she is,” the ghost whispered, pointing downward.

Corin’s breath caught in his throat. Mariah sat bound and gagged in the center of the floor, her face a patchwork of ugly bruises. Corin recognized the hulking crime boss immediately, with his shaved head and a scar splitting his lip. Half a dozen thugs flanked the ugly man. He grabbed Mariah’s hair and yanked her head back, making Corin wince.

“Last chance, little seer,” Grim growled. “Tell me what I want to know, or I start to become unpleasant.”

Mariah’s eyes blazed with defiance. “Go to hell,” she spat.

“Wrong answer, little seer.”

“Hey boss,” said one of the thugs. “Want us to have some fun with her?”

“Yeah,” said another, puffing out his chest. “What about it, boss?”

Grim chuckled—a cold, mirthless sound that sent shivers down Corin’s spine. “Not yet,” he said, his eyes roving over Mariah’s battered body. “I want to hear her beg for mercy first.”

Corin felt a surge of anger in his gut. He knew he had to act fast. His eyes darted about the warehouse, falling on an oil lamp hanging from the rafters just below him. Below it lay a pile of oily rags.

“What are you thinking, lad?” the ghost asked.

“What I need is a distraction,” Corin muttered under his breath. “But what to do after—”

The sharp crack of a hand striking flesh cut him short. Mariah’s cry of pain echoed in the cavernous space below him.

“Blast it all,” Corin hissed. Right now, all that mattered was getting Mariah away. He’d figure out the rest as he went. With that decided, his hand slipped to the worn handle of his knife as he crept closer to the edge of the hayloft, his heart hammering.

Here goes nothing.

Corin sprang from his hiding spot and rolled as he hit the floor. The thugs whirled around at the sudden movement, but he was already in motion, running. His blade flashed as it sliced through the rope holding the lamp.

“What the—”

The lamp crashed and shattered. The flames licked hungrily at the oily rags, and the thugs hesitated, unsure whether to chase Corin or to put out the fire.

“Yah!” shouted Corin, lunging in a feint. The thugs instinctively moved to fight him, wasting the precious few seconds they had before the fire grew out of control.

“What are you doing?” Grim bellowed. “Smith, Carter—after that thief! The rest of you put out the fire!” But he was too late. The flames had already taken to the dry and weathered wood, filling the air with smoke.

“Dirty little waif,” one of the thugs snarled as he drew a wicked dagger. Corin took that as his cue to dance.

The thug lunged at him, moving much faster than his hulking form seemed to allow. But Corin was faster. He darted to the side, tripping up a man with a water pail and causing him to spill it on the floor. Another thug tried to catch him, but slipped on the water and barreled into someone else.

Corin ran toward a stack of crates, leading his attackers away from Mariah, who still sat bound to her chair. The thugs crashed after him, knocking some of them over, but he had already doubled around behind them.

“Get him!” Grim roared, his face contorted with rage.

Corin had just enough time to duck before another thug came after him, swinging his meaty fists. He felt the whoosh of the air as the man’s arm passed over his head. Without thinking, he lashed out with his foot, catching his attacker in the knee. The man grunted and took a step back.

“My daughter!” the ghost yelled. “We have to save her before the place burns down!”

The warehouse was fully on fire now, the acrid smoke stinging Corin’s eyes and throat. He caught a glimpse of Mariah staring wide-eyed at the flames as men scrambled in vain to put them out. She was far too close to them for comfort.

But before Corin could run after her, the thugs came after him. Since they were both taller than him, though, the smoke stung their eyes enough for him to slip between them. He darted toward the opposite wall, coughing.

“A little help here?” he asked the ghost. The smoke was already thick enough that he could barely see anything.

“This way!” Mariah’s father called, urging him into the fire.

Corin followed, dodging started thugs and burning debris. Mariah’s muffled cries for help urged him to move faster. The acrid stench burned his lungs, but he ducked his head and pushed on.

“There she is!” the ghost cried out.

Through the haze, Corin spotted her. She’d been knocked to the floor in the commotion and was now struggling for her life against her bonds. When she saw him, her eyes widened.

“Corin? What are you doing here?”

“That’s a very good question,” he muttered, sawing at the ropes that bound her feet. As soon as they were cut, he grunted and hauled her up.

“Can you run?”

She nodded, her arms still bound behind her back. The timbers above them groaned and cracked, showering them with sparks and embers. But before they could run, a rough hand grabbed Corin’s shoulder.

“You little street rat,” Grim snarled, his face contorted with rage. “I’ll gut you myself!”

His knife was almost as long as Corin’s forearm. But before he could use it, Mariah landed a kick in the crime lord’s groin. Grim howled and doubled over.

“Run!” said Corin, grabbing Mariah by the arm. She didn’t need to be told twice. Together, they stumbled through the thickening smoke.

The burst out into the cool night air, coughing and gasping for breath. Behind them, angry shouts and roaring flames filled the air. Mariah staggered, and for a moment, it seemed that she was about to collapse.

“Don’t stop,” Corin gasped, pulling her back to her feet. “We’ve got to get away from here.”

Mariah nodded. Together, they plunged into the winding alleys of Caravelia, leaving the inferno far behind.

Corin

The old wharf groaned under Corin’s weight. He stumbled to the edge, letting his feet dangle over the water as he sat. The putrid stench of the river wafted up to greet him, a nauseating blend of sewage and rotting fish. As if that weren’t enough, the acrid smoke of the warehouse fire still clung to his rags.

“Think we lost ‘em,” he muttered as Mariah sat beside him. The distant shouts of the city guard echoed behind them through the narrow streets.

Mariah nodded. “For now, at least.” She sagged against a moldering wooden post, wincing at her bonds. “Lend a hand?”

“Right, sorry.” Corin fumbled for his knife and carefully sawed through the ropes binding her wrists. The raw, red welts stirred his anger.

“How badly did they hurt you?”

Mariah grimaced as she rubbed her chafed skin. “Ain’t nothing I can’t handle. You learn to take your licks on the streets.” She glanced at him, her eyes glinting. “Speaking of which, what were you doing there? How’d you know where to find me?”

Mariah’s father hovered at the edge of Corin’s vision. “Tell her,” he urged. But Corin couldn’t afford to let word get out about his gift.

“I heard a rumor,” he lied. “Thought I’d check it out, see if you needed my help.”

Mariah snorted. “Since when do you play the hero, Corey?”

“Maybe I just wanted to buck the trend for once.”

She stared at him for a while, then shook her head. “You’re a strange one. But… thanks. I mean it.”

“What were you doing getting mixed up with Grim’s crew anyway?” Corin asked. Mariah looked away, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s… complicated,” she said evasively. “I got mixed up in something I shouldn’t have.”

Corin’s frown deepened. He knew all too well the kinds of people who ruled Caravelia’s underworld. It often felt like the city’s prosperity was built on a foundation of corruption and greed. The fact that Mariah didn’t want to talk about it obviously meant she was in over her head.

“Must’ve been some job,” he pressed. “Grim doesn’t tie people up for fun.”

Mariah’s lips tightened. “Look, I appreciate you saving me and all, but it’s better if you don’t know all the details. For both our sakes.”

Corin opened his mouth to argue, then thought better of it. Why was he trying to get himself involved anyway? Everyone on the streets had their own dirty secrets.

“Fine,” he said. “Just… take care of yourself, alright? And if you need my help again—”

“Don’t worry, I’ll ask for it,” she said, turning away. But she couldn’t hide the gratitude in her eyes.

Maybe I just want to feel needed for a change, he thought, answering his own question. By someone who isn’t dead yet, he added quickly, turning away from the ghost.

“Tell her,” Mariah’s father pleaded. “Please, Corin. Tell her I’m here—that I love her.”

But Corin ignored the spectral being, fixing his gaze on the water instead. A small barge glided past them, its hull groaning as it made its way toward the harbor. Mariah noticed his sudden tension and frowned.

“What is it, Corey?” she asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“You have no idea.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Now, let’s get out of here before those goons catch up to us.”

Corin felt the ghost’s disappointment like a cold wind at his back. But he shoved the feeling aside. Survival came first—everything else was a luxury he couldn’t afford.

Lord Arion

Lord Arion silently watched the two ragged figures below. Though unremarkable to mortal eyes, the boy stood out among the thousands of other inhabitants of the capital city.

“He has the gift,” Lord Arion whispered. “The power to see beyond the veil of the Mortal Realm.”

Hope began to surge within him, a feeling he hadn’t felt very often since his demise. He swooped lower, watching as Corin parted ways with Mariah before slipping into a gaggle of drunken sailors. He blended in surprisingly well.

“He is so different from my Lyra,” Arion mused as he followed the boy through the city’s squalid streets. Where Lyra walked with the grace and poise of nobility, Corin slunk through the shadows, always watching his back. Where Lyra had a position at court, Corin trusted no one and always kept a knife on his belt.

“The streets haven’t been kind to you, have they, lad?” Arion murmured. He focused his otherworldly senses to peer into Corin’s heart. Beneath the boy’s gritty cynicism, a flicker of something pure still burned.

“There’s goodness there,” Arion decided. “Buried, perhaps, but not extinguished. You’re a good man, Corin—or at least, you want to be.”

Arion’s mind turned to the peril his daughter now courted. His rage burned at the thought of Dorian indoctrinating her in the ways of the Dark Brotherhood. She needed her father now more than ever—before she made a mistake that would fix the course of her life.

“The boy has the gift,” he repeated, steeling his resolve. It would not be easy, persuading a street urchin to turn from a life of petty thievery. But for Lyra’s sake, he had to try.