Lindholf was at his own table directly behind his bearded victim. They were sitting back-to-back, their chairs almost touching. The hood of Lindholf’s cloak was over his head, concealing his face. For further protection, he carried a dagger—the black dagger Tala had left in the red-hazed room where Sterling Prentiss had been murdered by Glade Chaparral. Lindholf had followed the two into the secret ways and witnessed the killing, witnessed Tala pull a vial of green medicine from Sterling’s guts, witnessed her fight with Glade, and saw her lose the dagger. The dagger he now owned.
Val-Draekin, also cloaked and hooded, sat in a shadowy booth near the back of the crowded tavern, observing. His occasional glances were curious and sharp under the dark cowl that concealed his Vallè features.
The plan had been simple. Lindholf was to enter the Slaver’s Tavern and Inn, pick out a likely victim, and then endeavor to successfully pull off his first-ever bit of real-world thievery. Val-Draekin would observe. Seita would remain cloaked and concealed outside with the three bay palfreys they’d borrowed from the stable marshal, Ser Wickham, keeping their mounts ready for a quick escape if need be.
The two Vallè had begun coaching him on the art of pickpocketing near a moon ago. Why? Lindholf hadn’t a clue. But the fact that anyone was paying attention to him was huge. And the fact that Glade Chaparral was not involved was an enormous boost. Lindholf mostly went unnoticed when around Glade. Everyone adored Glade. Everyone paid attention to the handsome and gallant Glade Chaparral. Pasty-faced and deformed, Lindholf Le Graven was always the afterthought, the ignored. So if Val-Draekin and Seita were going to befriend him, take him under their wing, teach him things, secret things, he wanted to do his utmost to impress them.
So he took three deep breaths, just like Val-Draekin had taught him, and kept his hand poised in midair, hovering just over the man’s satchel. Concentrate, Lindholf, concentrate! Focus! To calm his mind, he listened in on the man’s hushed conversation with his partner, who sat across from him. They were both disgusted that the White Prince’s war in Wyn Darrè was now rumored to have reached the shores of Gul Kana. They were also angry at the many oghul raids that were going unchecked in the northern regions of Gul Kana. Listening to their conversation wasn’t helping his jittery hand, especially when one of the men made mention that he would soon be reuniting with a mercenary group from the northern fortress town of Crucible and joining in the fight against those raiding oghuls. Mercenaries! I picked mercenaries to rob!
And then the man shifted in his chair.
Lindholf brought his hand up onto the table into plain sight and looked around the Slaver’s Tavern and Inn. The flickering candlelight cast a hazy shade of bleakness about the place. There was a candlelit hall at the end of the bar. The bartender was shuffling down it now. Near that far corner were more stools that held slouched figures. He cast his eyes nervously toward the worn, chipped wooden planks lining the floor, then at his own table before him. The stew still stared at him. He picked up the warm ceramic bowl with both hands and tipped it to his lips, sucking down a large gulp. He immediately choked, taking in way too much, sputtering, hunks of stew spewing from his mouth. Rotted angels!
He set the bowl down with a clatter, eyes darting to Val-Draekin. But the hood completely shaded the Vallè’s eyes now. The bartender returned from down the hallway and hurried back into the kitchen.
Idiot! Lindholf wiped his hands on his pant legs and attempted to collect himself. He tried to recall Val-Draekin’s many lessons. He’d studied many types of pouches and satchels, practiced—without looking—how to untie, unclasp, unhinge, unbutton, undo just about every type silently and smoothly and without so much as a hiccup or jostle. And strapped to the mercenary behind him was a simple leather pouch tied at the top with a simple tattered string. One of the easiest! Now here he was, not able keep himself together long enough to even touch the man’s satchel, let alone open it and take stuff out.
He risked a backward glance. And quickly wished he hadn’t.
When the man had shifted in his chair, his heavy woolen coat had fallen open at the side, revealing a shortsword at his belt just behind the satchel. Lindholf hurriedly did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart. I have to follow through with this. He uttered a quick prayer and shook away the nerves, hand sliding back in position a third time, fingers drifting ever closer to the man’s satchel, feeling the thin leather laces atop the pouch for the first time.
And suddenly the foolishness of the whole venture set in. I’m the son of a noble! And besides, Laijon’s not going to help me pickpocket a stranger, no matter how many holy incantations I mutter—
Then his victim rocked back on his chair with a prodigious yawn. Lindholf’s hand was instantly entangled in leather. The man whirled and stood, sized up the situation in an instant, grasped Lindholf’s wrist in a steel-like grip, and yanked him to his feet.
Lindholf’s hood flew back, revealing his face.
“What’s your problem, scum?” The fellow had a grim round face, black hair, a bushy beard, and sharp, angry eyes. He was also significantly taller than Lindholf and outweighed him by a good seventy pounds.
“I got no problem,” Lindholf squeaked, trying to pull his hand away. His other hand went for the black dagger hidden in his tunic.
“A pickpocket,” said the second man, standing now, an older, paunchy fellow.
The first mercenary twisted Lindholf’s arm painfully. “Trying to rob me, you pasty oghul-faced freak?”
“No. I would never—”
The man rammed his fist right into Lindholf’s chin. Lindholf went reeling back, landing hard on his butt. They are going to kill me! The tavern was silent. Everyone was looking at him now.
“I don’t steal.” Lindholf hauled himself to his feet, woozy from the blow. “I don’t even need to steal—”
“Lying little cocksucker.” The mercenary drew his shortsword with a rasp. People nearby lurched up from their tables and backed away, forming an open space between Lindholf and the man. Lindholf’s balls crawled right up into his throat, the pain in his jaw now forgotten as quickly as the dagger in his tunic.
“He’s just a boy.” Val-Draekin stepped between him and the man with the sword. “For Laijon’s sake, let him be.” The Vallè’s face was still obscured under the dark hood.
“And just who the fuck are you?”
“I’m no one.”
“Well then, back the fuck up and mind your own business.” The man brushed Val-Draekin aside, the tip of his sword poised at Lindholf’s chest. “I aim to slice out his beady little rat eyes, carve up his ugly rat face.”
“I’m sorry.” Lindholf’s voice was shaky. He dipped his head, ashamed of his deformities and scars.
“You’re a sorry worthless motherfucker is what you are.” The mercenary scowled, eyes bouncing between him and the hooded Vallè, his sword steady.
“Look,” Val-Draekin continued, “he said he wasn’t trying to steal from you.”
“Bloody Mother Mia, you want a part of this thrashing, stranger?” the mercenary rumbled. “The boy will be dealt with how I see fit.”
With both hands, Val-Draekin pulled the hood of his cloak back, revealing to everyone the upturned ears and distinctive, refined, cunning face of the Vallè that he was. His unmistakable Vallè eyes loomed large in the shifting candlelight of the tavern.
The man’s initial look of anger did not drain away, but rather increased considerably at the sight of Val-Draekin. “You, a Vallè, dare advise me?”
“No need for bloodshed here.”
“Well, then.” The man’s face flushed with rage. “You can honor your fragile Vallè sensibilities by turning the fuck away.”
“Let the boy be.” Val-Draekin’s voice conveyed assurance and menace in a single breath. The second mercenary, the paunchy one, drew his sword and joined his companion. Now there were two men with steel in hand, both looking ready and able.
Lindholf’s body froze in place a
s Val-Draekin held his hands out, both covered in white powder.
The mercenaries looked at each other. Then as one they rushed the Vallè.
Val-Draekin snapped his fingers and a cone of bright fire appeared in the palm of each hand. And with a powerful burst of air from his lips, he blew into the twin flames. Two balls of orange heat and fire instantly engulfed both mercenaries.
Before he knew what was happening, Lindholf was being dragged by the sleeve through Slaver’s Tavern toward the front door and out into the light of day. Val-Draekin hustled him down the rickety wooden porch and onto the cobbled stone, shoving him in the direction of Seita and the three bay palfreys hitched at the post across the street.
Seita met them with a coy smile and roguish, dancing eyes. “Went well, I see?”
“Mount up.” Val-Draekin shoved Lindholf up into the saddle of the nearest horse. “That flame was merely a distraction. Those men will be out here soon.”
† † † † †
All three stood on crisp grass in the center of the Hallowed Grove under the towering Atonement Tree. Seita held both arms out in front of her pale face, palms cupped together, white powder in her hands. She pursed her silky lips, and with a puff of breath sent the powder gently afloat, scattering the colorful butterflies above. Though there was no breeze to carry it, the wispy cloud of powder seemed to ascend of its own accord, higher and higher in sinuous soft tendrils of mist that wove through the thick, twining branches. Twinkles of light flickered where the powder touched dusky green leaves.
Val-Draekin did exactly as Seita had. The powder from his palms also drifted high, glittering as it too seemed to meld with the leaves—leaves that were said to be as ancient as the tree itself, more than one thousand years old. Legend was, not one leaf of the great Atonement Tree had ever been found shriveled and dead under its lofty canopy. Even during the harshest of winters, the leaves remained, alive and green.
Lindholf, Val-Draekin, and Seita were alone under the tree. A contingent of several hundred Silver Guards guarded the tree at all times, stationed in a large circle around the perimeter, letting only those of royal blood through their ranks. Pilgrims and other common folk from the breadth of the Five Isles were allowed into the Hallowed Grove—an expansive public park situated west of Mount Albion and Amadon Castle on the outskirts of the city, near the Riven Rock slave quarry—but only royalty were allowed this close to the sacred monument. The tree itself soared more than five hundred feet high. The base of it, a scant twenty feet from where Lindholf and the two Vallè stood, was impressive, the size of several royal oxcarts clustered together. Vines of green ivy sprinkled with white heather grew up the tree’s trunk in a twisty maze, disappearing into the arcing branches and emerald heights beyond.
“A Vallè tradition,” Seita said with reverence. “To grace the tree with Shroud of the Vallè is to gift the essence of our realm’s deep gratitude for Laijon’s great sacrifice.”
A small trace of powder was left in her hand. She put it to her tongue and tasted, then sniffed the rest up into her nose, eyes closed, breathing deep as if partaking in some holy Ember Lighting smoke. She reopened her eyes and said, “For more than a thousand years the Vallè have worshipped so, sharing the Shroud with the tree, at this place of our Lord’s great sacrifice.”
The white powder was still a mystery to Lindholf. He’d seen both Seita and Val-Draekin use it to create small bursts of flame a few times before in the castle. And Val-Draekin had used it again today in their escape from the Slaver’s Tavern and Inn.
“Would you like to give some to the tree?” Seita asked.
Lindholf shook his head. “It seems a sacred practice of the Vallè. I dare not befoul it, a fool like me.”
“A sniff then?”
He didn’t want to sniff the powder either. “What is it exactly?”
“Shroud of the Vallè.” Val-Draekin had some remaining on the tip of his own finger, and he examined the residue with probing eyes. “Powder pounded out of the white crystal rocks north of Vandivar on Memory Bay, a remote coastal quarry along the far western shore of Val Vallè. If mixed with certain metals, and then heated just a little, the Shroud can create curious mists of colorful light and, if one knows certain tricks, can also spark a quick-burning flame.”
“Curious mists of colorful light?” Lindholf questioned.
“Aye,” Val-Draekin answered. “If mixed with certain metals and liquid silvers during the forging process, very curious and interesting weapons can be fashioned.”
“I’ve seen you spark the powder many times. It’s always startling.”
“That’s the point of Shroud of the Vallè,” Seita said. “A distraction. Everything we Vallè do is meant to create a distraction. The flame from the powder never lasts more than a second or two. Otherwise it would make for a great weapon indeed.” She looked at Val-Draekin, smiling. “The things we Vallè could accomplish then.”
“Makes for a clever bit of trickery for a thief on the run, though.” Val-Draekin snapped his fingers and a very small flicker of flame ignited briefly, then vanished.
“It saved us from those ruffians, for sure,” Lindholf said, then felt immediate guilt. “I fell apart.” He found himself stumbling out an apology like a daft-headed idiot. “The bloodsucking oghul caught me thieving and I fell apart. I’m sorry. Bloody Mother Mia, I reckon I’m just not cut out for pickpocketing.”
“I reckon you’re not the first to muss up his initial attempt,” Seita said. “It takes practice to become expert in anything, even thieving. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
“Practice, precision, repetition,” Val-Draekin added. “All essential to perfection. They say Sør Sevier assassins use the living bodies of the condemned to learn the intricacies of human anatomy. Hundreds of criminals pulled from their dungeons and sacrificed, all for the heartless practice of these dealers in death. Precision. Repetition. Practice. Remember, three deep breaths and patience, and all things will work out.”
“Sør Sevier assassins?” Lindholf said questioningly. “I’ll practice how to be a cutpurse, but don’t expect me to learn killing like that, like they do in Sør Sevier.”
“Sacrament of Souls, the Bloodwood assassins call it.” Seita’s gaze roamed back up to the trees and butterflies settling on the branches above. “Sør Sevier is full of much evil. It is why we are preparing you for survival, young Lindholf. You and your friend Tala. Your sister, Lawri, too. All must prepare to battle the White Prince and his armies.” Her eyes fell back on him, hard and serious. “For the Sør Sevier armies will bring evil with them, evil even worse than any Sacrament of Souls.”
Lindholf shivered at the thought. He began to realize that everything the two Vallè said seemed cloaked in a threat of looming darkness, a looming threat in the name of the invaders from Sør Sevier: the savagery of the White Prince and his armies, the torturous ways of their assassins, the need to know how to combat evil. But combat evil with an evil of their own. Trickery. Sleight of hand. Thievery and sneaking about. He truly wondered if they wouldn’t indeed soon begin to teach him how to kill like a Sør Sevier assassin. Do I have that in me? Murder? No. I won’t do that.
The fact was, Lindholf enjoyed his time under the tutelage of both Seita and Val-Draekin, even if it was naught but learning about how to be a thief. Their tutelage was a needed distraction. A distraction that couldn’t have come at a better time.
After arriving in Amadon with his family for his Ember Lighting Rites, he’d become depressed. He had spent a lot of his time loafing about, losing his carefree spirit, seemingly always at odds with the world. He’d become idle, overly obsessed with his cousin Tala, inventorying the countless love poems he’d written to her but never showed anyone, preferring to keep her in the hidden realm of lofty fantasy. He didn’t see her as family. He loved her. Loved her beautiful hair and cheekbones and gorgeous, perfect eyes, which always left him deliriously spellbound. He loved all of her. He had become wickedly obs
essed. His mind drifted back to when she had kissed him in Sunbird Hall. And in the breathless rush of the moment, he’d kissed her right back before he could rein himself in. And to his shock, Tala’s lips had parted and she’d opened herself up to him. Her warm body pressed to his. Her untamed heart beating fiercely. But then she’d backed away. Made him feel small in that way all girls could. Made him feel awkward and weird and deformed.
Which he was. It was only the truth. To Lindholf’s estimation, it seemed he’d been a right peculiar sort from the moment of his birth, and any gander he took into a mirror only proved that fact. So he avoided mirrors. And glassy ponds. Even shiny armor reflected too much of his own brand of ugly right back at him. All of it combined—his looks, the way girls reacted to him, the culmination of his own desires—made him feel so lecherous, so unworthy. Especially when Glade was around. Glade, with all his glorious Chaparral good looks and false bravado and divisive charm. Truth was, Glade was the creepy one. But nobody saw it. His creepiness was always taken as casual flirtation by the court girls, who would swoon at his every awkward, annoying word. And my clever and casual ways are always taken for untoward creepiness. All of it based on how different we look. Him beautiful. Me flawed.
Fact was, his own thoughts tortured him; tormented him at all times. He wondered if he wasn’t going crazy from the constant array of conflicts battling inside his own head. Yes, he loved all of Tala. Yes, he had become wickedly obsessed. And yes, he knew it was all wrong and had to be stopped. Yet can I? Can I give up my addiction to her?
The Blackest Heart Page 8