Until now he’d thought it impossible. But ever since Seita and Val-Draekin had taken to teaching him how to pickpocket, he’d found new life, new purpose. Unlike Glade, or perhaps even Tala, it seemed the two Vallè were truly his friends.
There was noise and clatter in the distance, interrupting his thoughts.
Val-Draekin pointed toward the King’s Highway just beyond the border of the park. There was a procession of prisoners being marched toward the slave quarry at Riven Rock just a few miles west of the Hallowed Grove and the Atonement Tree. “Up from the dungeons of Purgatory to the quarry,” Val-Draekin muttered. “Only the worst, most ill-favored of the court are sentenced into the pits of Riven Rock.”
High clouds feathered the horizon far above the prisoners. Silver Guards and Dayknights lined the King’s Highway as the hundred or so cuffed and shackled soon-to-be slaves shuffled along. Even from a distance, the slaves appeared a pathetic lot. Lindholf had seen the Riven Rock slave brand burned onto the neck of more than one doomed gladiator. Two large, red RRs for Riven Rock. Just at the thought of the hot iron that had made such a cruel mark, Lindholf felt his hand, seemingly of its own accord, drift up to his neck and the scarred flesh there, fingers tracing the rough and cobbled burn scars that traveled up and over his own cheekbones and ears. Any deformity, scar, or mark upon another man made him rue his own.
Seita saw him touching his face. “The Temple of the Laijon Statue,” she said. “You’ve been there before, yes?”
Lindholf jerked his hand away from his ear, heart thudding as he gave her a startled nod. It seems they are rooting around in my mind constantly, these two Vallè. He thought of the chiseled ears of the statue. The statue’s flaw. “I’ve been there,” he said.
“I thought as much.” Seita met his gaze with frank interest. “Most royals have.” She dipped her head toward the line of slaves. “That sublime likeness of our great One and Only, sculpted from the exquisite marble quarried in yonder pits, is certainly a glorious sight.”
“The King of Slaves, molded from stone quarried by slaves,” Val-Draekin broke in. “A statue of marble cut from the same pit where the King of Slaves himself once toiled.”
“It certainly has a symmetry and a beauty to it,” Seita said. “Don’t you think?”
“I can agree with that.” Lindholf studied Seita’s supple face, the smooth lines of porcelain-like nose and brows.
“There is perfection in Laijon’s plan,” Seita said. Her eyes emanated softness and caring and deep intellect at the same time. Lindholf couldn’t help but look upon the graceful sweep of her hair as it tumbled about her ears, ears that were thin and flawless and pointed.
With that thought, he forced his gaze back out toward the line of slaves and thought of the Temple of the Laijon Statue and the flawed likeness of the great One and Only. That he knew of the hidden flaw when nobody else did still filled him with a silent panic. That he knew that the glorious sculpture of the great One and Only was a fraud, that it was no sculpture of a human at all, filled him with a hollow dread. Had the sculptor some grudge against Laijon and his believers and sculpted the ears like that on purpose? Why hadn’t they been fully smoothed over? He had myriad questions and thoughts on the matter. He wondered if these two Vallè beside him knew the secret too.
“There is a symmetry and beauty to the history of Amadon as well,” Val-Draekin said. “Do you know of the Triplets Bronachell? The three royal children who lived during the life of Laijon: Albion, Riven, and Savon. ’Twas these royal triplets that Amadon and much of the histories of Gul Kana and the entire Five Isles were founded upon. The royal mountain upon which sits Amadon Castle was named after Albion. And ’twas Riven who the slave quarry was named after. And Savon Bronachell . . .” The Vallè’s eyes traveled back toward the procession of slaves. “Well, a long story is Savon’s. Maybe for another time.”
Lindholf’s eyes were fixed on the line of slaves in the distance.
“You’ll never want to find yourself part of that sorry crew, Lindholf,” Seita said. “Some say the pits of Riven Rock Quarry are a worse fate than even the Bloodwoods’ Sacrament of Souls. Both amount to prolonged and painful deaths.”
Lindholf had to swallow back his revulsion. He had heard the rumors of the backbreaking labors and torments inflicted upon the slaves sent down into the depths of Riven Rock. Few made it out alive. It was essentially a death sentence. Lindholf disdained manual labor of any kind. No. He did not want to find himself party to any of it.
Seita sniffed more Shroud of the Vallè, then held out her hand. A line of powder remained in her palm. “Sure you don’t want to try some?”
“I think I will.” Lindholf leaned over her cupped hand, nose and cheek brushing her fingertips as he sniffed. He felt an immediate faint but pleasant tingling in his nostrils. He breathed in deep and his eyes instantly felt afire. He coughed hard. Gasped for air.
And then it hit him, a glorious sensation of supreme euphoria. And he instantly wanted more.
* * *
Oh, this bloody Sacrament of Souls, it has served our ancient lineage well, along with our myth of the Five Warrior Angels.
—THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER
* * *
CHAPTER SEVEN
CRYSTALWOOD
8TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
ROKENWALDER, SØR SEVIER
Hans Rake raised the black dagger until the blade brushed his lips.
“You mustn’t,” Krista Aulbrek said, conscious of the thudding of her own heart. “Lavender deje is not safe to ingest.”
“But a wonderful drug if inhaled just right.”
“But awful to the taste, I imagine.”
“And I imagine the taste of you is divine.” His smile did not enhance his thin face, but instead gave him an unpleasant sneer. “ ’Tis not the deje on my blade that I’m afraid of, but rather your constant denial of our love.”
She would not acknowledge the comment, her patience wearing thin. It was all a game with him. The killing. The flirting. She looked beyond him to the bay below, where moonlight, randomly breaking through the clouds, illumed the restless waters. Night had long since draped its shadows over Rokenwalder. In the distance, patches of dark sky thundered, laced with occasional lightning. It looked like rain would drop from the sky at any moment.
Krista turned from Hans and walked along the edge of the manor house’s aged roof, focusing on the creaking of the wooden planks and tile beneath her feet and the ashy light in the alley five stories below. Her senses were attuned for any movement from any direction—just as Dugal had taught her. She and Hans had reached the roof unmolested, but their mission was still far from accomplished, and time was running out.
Though she could not hear him, she knew Hans followed her, no more than two steps behind. Silent. Hans Rake was far more skilled in sneaking than she. Her feet, as stealthy as they were, made some noise. His made none.
“Do you not love me?” he asked. “Will you not share your new name?”
Fatigue engulfed her like a cloak. “I beg of you, desist.” She turned and faced him again. He still held the dagger. “Lest you forget, we’ve a mission yet to complete.”
“The night is long.” He lifted the dagger, tongue flickering over the blade now at his lips.
Ever since the Sacrament of Souls, Hans Rake had become more and more besotted with figuring out her name. Until he earned his own name, he was not allowed to know hers. It was part of their training. He’d become jealous. A nuisance. He was no longer winning in Dugal’s eyes because of her, and it was clearly affecting him. And now he pushes me. Tests me.
“Perhaps you’d like a taste.” That sneering grin she despised crawled back over his face as he spoke. “I’ve a vial hidden in my leathers just for you.”
“Lavender deje?”
“No.” His voice was smooth. “Blood of the Dragon.”
Yes, he pushes me. She turned from Hans, reached for the black iron railing behind he
r, gripped the cold steel with two leather-gloved hands. He tests me with the sap of the Bloodwood tree, the sap that I am never to taste again. It haunted her, that glorious sensation. One taste was all Dugal had allowed before he had forbidden it forever. Yes, Hans tempts me wickedly!
The rain began, driven sideways by the evening winds, smelling of the sea. She let it cleanse her of all temptation and want. The newly forged Bloodwood dagger slipped from the sleeve of her cloak and into her hand. A dagger she had fashioned herself, fashioned from that very same sap of the Bloodwood trees she so desired, mixed with the blood of those criminals on whom she’d practiced her art, those she’d prodded and carved and flayed, those countless souls she’d taken in silent ritual.
She knew the cruel coldness that lurked in everyone’s deepest thoughts had been fully awoken in her. She savored and reveled in every dark death and every new trick she learned. Is this the life Avril Aulbrek envisioned for her daughter? Likely not. But my father is a killer too. Now, in her own way, she fought alongside Gault, both of them creating death in the name of Aeros Raijael.
Hans was at the railing with her, dagger still in hand. “Ready, my love—my nameless love?”
“I am not your love.” She would not be distracted by him. Despite the day’s many ordeals, she would stay prepared. Dugal had set them to a specific purpose tonight.
She gazed out at the city below her—Rokenwalder. A cluttered maze of streets, alleyways, and stone buildings extended on both sides of the manor house as far as she could see. Lanterns, torches, windows, all cast a faint amber glow back at her. Like nearly every structure in Rokenwalder, the buildings and belfries closest to this grand house were roofed in tile, shingle, or thatch. They were mostly made of dark gray brick-and-mortar walls and thick timbers supporting upper floors. She and Hans were in one of the more affluent sections of the city; the manor house, upon whose roof they now perched, was one of the biggest.
“Don’t upset yourself.” Hans touched her shoulder and gently turned her toward him. “ ’Tis all part of Dugal’s plan, even the way I speak to you now.” His expectant eyes rested on her.
“Do not look at me so.” She faced him, dagger clenched in the palm of her own hand under the sleeve of her cloak, unseen.
Hans knit his brows but said nothing. His dirty-blond hair, shaved far above his ears on both sides of his head, was a two-inch-high row of spiky clumps from his forehead to the back of his neck and appeared icily gray in the wan light, rain starting to flatten it down. The Suk Skard clan tattoos that covered the sides of his scalp shone blue in the wetness. His eyes, like Dugal’s, were faintly streaked with red. He was as thin as her, but he wore his lithe stature with a swaggering air.
A gust of rain lashed against the roof, buffeting them both. Krista sensed the trickles of water moving through the cracks and crevices of the tile and pooling at their feet with a hollow chill. The cold air plucked at the rainwater on her skin, too. Hans’ fingers toyed with his dagger almost daintily. Then he put the blade back up to his lips.
“Please don’t.” She could see the sheen of black resin clinging to the blade—the rain had not yet washed it clean.
“What does it matter if I ingest the deje and die?” he asked as a crash of thunder shook the air. Thick rain drummed the rooftops and cobblestone streets below. He did not drop his gaze. “Or what does it matter if you die?”
And he struck, plunging the dagger into her chest above her heart.
Krista looked at him through watery light and felt not a thing. When he pulled the dagger free, rain hissed off the blade, misting around it, a residue of the heat from inside her chest. Thunder continued to rattle around them, lightning illuminating their rooftop perch. Hans’ expression was carved from ice as she rammed the blade of her own dagger into his chest and pulled it free. The blow didn’t even stagger him, didn’t even make him sway slightly. She was proud of that. Her strike had been perfect.
“There it is,” Hans said flatly, putting his dagger away. “We are now bonded.”
“Only as Dugal wished.”
“We two Bloodwoods work in concert. Like the legends Hawk and the Spider. Like Silk and the Rose. Now us, Hans and the nameless one.” His tone was fueled with sarcasm. “Dugal’s ultimate creations. A team. Unrivaled.”
She slipped her own dagger back into the folds of her leather armor, not certain she wanted Hans Rake on her team, or even by her side. It seemed all a joke to him. All a game. He could be exhausting.
“Loving you hurts deeply.” He grinned. “But Dugal was right—being struck with a blade coated in lavender deje is painless. My heart feels not a thing now.” And then, with a flick of his wrist, Hans Rake looped a thin rope around the black iron railing and leaped over it, twisting in midair, falling straight down.
And in the growing gloom of storm, Krista followed.
† † † † †
In silence they descended, both gripping each tiny handhold of the worn and crumbled columns with cool assurance until they reached their destination—the manor house’s third-floor window. Hans slipped the tip of his dagger into the seam of the wood frame and, finding the latch, released it, whilst Krista deftly nudged the frame and glass inward. Like darkness flowing, they entered the room, both swiftly stepping away from the glow of the window, rainwater on their black leathers adrip on the plush carpeting. A faint wash of lamplight from the alley below caused patterns of yellow to dance on the room’s smooth ceiling—a room that was spacious and garnished with much finery. A four-poster bed of rich mahogany and white silken drapes was against the far left wall; a beautiful blond woman, naked from the waist up, was asleep atop its spacious mattress, swaddled in rich blankets.
Her name was Solvia Klingande.
Krista moved toward the bed, black dagger in hand—a different blade than the one she’d used to stab Hans on the rooftop. This weapon was not only coated in lavender deje, but also berlin’s breath, a nonvaporous tonic that constricted the blood vessels instantly, stifling the flow of blood.
Hans was but a step behind her as she squatted by Solvia’s bed. He leaned over, eyes drinking in the voluptuous naked beauty of the nineteen-year-old wife of Ser Aulmut Klingande, a corrupt and lecherous sixty-year-old Rokenwalder nobleman.
Krista stabbed Solvia just above the heart. Her black dagger struck down like lightning and then out, back into the hidden pocket of her leather armor just as swiftly. No blood streamed from the wound. Krista’s strike had been exact. And the alchemy she’d earlier spread over her blade had been mixed to perfection.
Still, Ser Aulmut’s young wife moaned and shifted in bed. Krista held her breath. Solvia’s eyelids fluttered briefly, then stilled—the sign that the potions on Krista’s blade had worked their magic. Solvia would not awaken for hours now, no matter how much noise they made.
Hans rose in silence and disappeared into the dark room behind her. Krista followed her partner to the rosewood dresser between the bed and the closed double doors of the bedchamber. Hans produced the thin parchment from the folds of his cloak and pinned it to the surface of the dresser with one of his Bloodwood daggers. Krista had earlier constructed the contents of the note with Hans.
It read,
The hole above your heart will speak to the danger you are now in. Return all the coin your husband stole. All of it. To every innocent he conned. You have three days. If you do not, we will carve your beating heart from your chest in front of your waking eyes. You cannot hide from us. The blade with this note is evidence of who your new masters are.
We will deal with your husband however we deem appropriate.
Hans threw Krista a nod, and a moment later they were both positioned before the double doors of the chamber. Thick and heavy and ornate, the twin doors were secured at the middle with a simple bolt and latch mechanism from the inside of the room.
With a slow twist of the latch, Hans slid the bolt back, his cool gaze meeting hers. He suddenly had a black dagger in b
oth hands. As did she. A guard, perhaps two, would be posted just beyond this door. Krista was prepared, exhilarated in fact, heart thumping. And she could see the lust for death glowing in Hans’ eyes too. Together they jerked the doors inward and sprang to the fight.
The guards, one on either side of the door, barely had a chance to turn and put hand to hilt before they were dead and folding to the floor in crumpled heaps, the clatter of their armor muffled by the rich carpet. Two grizzled men with graying beards, both in steel-mail hauberks, leather greaves, sheathed broadswords, riding boots, and iron half-helms that had toppled from their heads in the fall. Both now minus one eye from the flickering black daggers that had pierced clear to their brain stems.
As Hans closed the double doors to Solvia’s bedchamber behind him, Krista cast a furtive glance down the hall in either direction. She saw nothing of note, just a long corridor shrouded in gloom, dimly lit from half-burning sconces hanging in twenty-foot intervals each way. Another wooden doorway was set just across the hallway from her and Hans, jewels and gems of many colors embedded in the wood.
She studied the mercenary guard she had killed. His face was drooping and calm, mouth agape, blue tongue lolling out between flaccid lips. Perhaps fifty, maybe sixty years old. Sure, she’d ended many lives in Dugal’s name. But they were all con men like Ser Aulmut, or murderers themselves. And she’d ended many more lives in her Sacrament of Souls. But those people had been worthless prisoners, mere subjects in a grand work of art. Not even real people. Nameless and evil. Thieves and rapers. Scum who deserved what she’d doled out. But this man, this old mercenary fighter under her. She wondered, what had been his history? Had he a family? Children? Grandchildren? Had he once perhaps fought alongside Gault Aulbrek in Adin Wyte or Wyn Darrè? Was guarding Ser Aulmut’s wife inside Ser Aulmut’s mansion just a job to him, a way for him to support his loved ones? Or was he part and privy to Ser Aulmut’s crimes? If so, he deserved his death.
The Blackest Heart Page 9