The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  The entire time he’d spent in the cathedral Nail had wondered, Does Laijon even watch over any of them who pray? Will Laijon answer their thousands of prayers and stave the flow of Aeros Raijael’s armies?

  †  †  †  †  †

  It took Nail a moment for his eyes to grow accustomed to the smoke-filled darkness of the saloon. The dirt-stained windows on either side of the back door didn’t offer much help, nor did the soot-stained windows across the room near the front entrance. The place was mostly empty. Tables, chairs, and stools were strewn around the place in a sloppy order. A few candles were lit in sconces high on the walls, sending off a soft-butter glow. The open hearth near the bar along the right wall crackled with flame. There was the welcome smell of wood smoke, and Nail’s eyes watered from it.

  The Turn Key wasn’t quite as homey and inviting as the Grayken Spear Inn in Gallows Haven. And the rooms they were staying in above the saloon were filthy, tiny, and not well ventilated. Nail shared his small room with Stefan, Dokie, and Liz Hen. The girl took the bed, the three boys the floor.

  Nail and Stefan edged their way through the saloon toward a round table in the far left corner of the room, where the others had gathered. Roguemoore’s head was buried in a book. Godwyn sat near Culpa Barra, the two in deep conversation. Liz Hen sat close to the Dayknight, Dokie Liddle with her. Beer Mug was there too, eyes constantly alert, tail thumping lightly against the wood-plank floor.

  Roguemoore shot Nail and Stefan a sidelong glance, beckoned them sit, then went back to his book. As he settled into his chair, Nail noticed how the firelight shone off the large planes of the dwarf’s rough face. With his prickly beard and stout stature, the dwarf ofttimes reminded Nail of an angry black bear he and Shawcroft had come across in the high alpine woods above Gallows Haven one summer.

  “Hey, Stefan,” Liz Hen blurted. “I finally figured out why that shark didn’t swallow Dokie whole.”

  “And why’s that?” Stefan asked.

  “Because Dokie shit his britches!” she bellowed. “He wasn’t to the shark’s taste!”

  “Well, I ain’t ashamed,” Dokie piped in. “I reckon it only proves I’m not the only living thing concerned with the cleanliness of bungholes.”

  “Evidently so!” Liz Hen laughed, gleeful eyes falling on the Dayknight next to her. “As I’ve always aimed to prove, good ser, sharks and most other carnivorous creatures are mighty averse to shit-smeared humans.”

  Culpa politely smiled and went back to his muffled conversation with Godwyn. Nail vaguely recalled one of Aeros’ knights forcing Dokie to swim with the sharks after the sacking of Gallows Haven. He’d taken a good blow to the head that day and events were hazy.

  The double doors of the kitchen swung open. A wispy little fellow about Nail’s same age came toddling out, wearing a cook’s apron and carrying a flat iron tray. It was Otto, the serving boy. He was a slip of a kid with a crooked nose and narrow lips, round eyes cast wide on his already thin face. The hue of his rumpled hair was like muddy water. In fact, in Nail’s estimation, the kid bore a striking resemblance to Dokie.

  “Speaking of irresponsible bum-fuckery,” Liz Hen muttered as the boy approached. “This Turn Key Saloon is a catastrophe. It’s not like the Grayken Spear Inn back home at all.” She waggled her finger at Dokie for emphasis. “Boys ought not be helpin’ in the kitchen. Boys ought not be actin’ the barmaid. Boys ought not be cooking nor serving meals of any sort. Not a smidge of domestic bona fides reside within a man, and they make this Otto both cook and server?” She waved her hand in disgust.

  “You realize I can hear everything you’re saying.” Otto’s eyes were bleary with fatigue as he handed Liz Hen the metal tray with dozens of pine nuts smoldering on it. “If it eases your mind, Richrath’s gaoler committee sent me to a class on stew making the other day. Finished top of the class, I did.”

  “Richrath’s gaoler committee is a stupid bunch of lazy fat slags. They shouldn’t even be running a restaurant.” Liz Hen stared at the tray in her hands. “We supposed to eat these?” She set the tray down with a clatter before it fried her fingers. The nuts looked burnt black and sat in a thick greasy film that looked like ash.

  “Aye, eat them with buttered fried shrimp and herb-flavored mead,” Otto said. “The best meal in all of Gul Kana. Cooked them myself.”

  “I think I’d rather chew on the dirty wood floor.”

  “I thought you liked the food here, Liz Hen.” Dokie reached for a blackened nut and popped it into his mouth. He grimaced at the taste but swallowed it down.

  “This place is a joke.” Liz Hen favored Dokie with a venomous look. “With naught but gaolers in charge, it’ll never rise above the mediocre.”

  Otto didn’t seem too terribly perturbed by Liz Hen’s insults, eyes scanning the table. “What do you all want to eat?”

  “Anything,” Liz Hen said. “Just that it ain’t been previously digested.”

  “I recommend the stew,” Otto said flatly.

  “You mean the stew they taught you to make in some class?” Liz Hen huffed. “I think not. I want eggs, scrambled, with diced chicken mixed in with the eggs.”

  “Chicken in the eggs?” Otto took a step back.

  “I been thinkin’ about a dinner of chicken and eggs all day.”

  Otto looked horrified. “I don’t think I’m allowed to mix the two. Choose some other species of meat to mix with your eggs.”

  “What in the bleeding Mother Mia are you goin’ on about?”

  “Scramblin’ a chicken up in its own eggs,” Otto answered. “It’s cruel.”

  “Cruel to the chickens or to me?” Liz Hen’s glare darkened.

  “I’ll take the stew,” Dokie piped in.

  “Stew for everyone.” Roguemoore looked up from his book, the look in his deep-set eyes one of mild irritation. Otto shrugged and shuffled off.

  “Right.” Liz Hen added. “Stew for everyone. And hasten your step, boy.”

  Otto turned back to her. “I don’t like to be hastened. It’s my one deficiency.”

  “You seem the type who’s deficient in a lot of things.”

  Otto scrunched his brow in consternation, then turned and drifted off into the kitchen.

  “I swear.” Liz Hen looked straight at Culpa Barra. “If there’s anyone liable to fuck up the gathering of a meal, it’s that little clodpole there.”

  Satisfied with her assessment of the kitchen help, she ruffled the fur on Beer Mug’s head. The dog panted happily beside her.

  “My pa always said you can tell a lot about a person by the way they treat the waitstaff,” Dokie piped in.

  “What do you mean by that?” Hurt filled Liz Hen’s eyes.

  “I just think it’s best you give poor Otto a break.”

  Liz Hen’s entire face was frowning now. “I suppose.” There was a hint of pain in her voice. “I just miss my job at the Grayken Spear is all.”

  “I understand.” Dokie embraced her hand in his.

  Roguemoore cleared his throat and closed his book with a clap, and with scarred hands slipped it into the buckled front closure of his tunic. “I think it’s safe to say I don’t think my brother is coming. Ironcloud should have been here by now. Something has happened.”

  “Should we proceed without him?” Culpa asked. “I’m hesitant to continue on to Sky Lochs and Deadwood Gate without Ironcloud or Shawcroft’s instructions.”

  “I believe we’ve no choice,” Roguemoore answered.

  “I say we wait a little longer.” Godwyn’s skin was as weathered and rough as a blacksmith’s leather glove; deep creases curled at the corners of his eyes as he spoke.

  “We dare not linger more than need be,” the dwarf said. “The longer we wait for my brother, the more worried I get, for the only reason Ironcloud would not show up is that he has finally discovered the fate of Borden Bronachell. We should strike off on our own, even though we no longer have Shawcroft’s satchel and the maps or other necessary directi
ons he’d provided.”

  Nail felt guilty every time Shawcroft’s satchel was brought up. Apparently his master had left some form of coded instructions important to the Brethren of Mia within the satchel that Nail was not privy to. As the debate among the three men continued, Nail only half listened, almost drifting off to sleep, lulled by the gentle crackling of the hearth.

  The door of the saloon creaked open and a shaft of light broke harsh across Nail’s face and spread inward toward the bar. Two cloaked figures were silhouetted in the entrance. The door swung closed, the shaft of light vanished, and the silhouettes melted into the dark confines of the room.

  Cloaked all in black from head to foot, faces hidden beneath the cowls of their cloaks, the newcomers moved through the tavern toward Nail’s table with an unobtrusive ease. The breeze that followed their entrance carried something in it, some foreboding that made Nail sit up straight and alert in his chair as they approached. Culpa Barra stood too, as did Bishop Godwyn, hands on their sword hilts.

  Once at their table, both of the mysterious cloaked newcomers bowed. Then one of them threw back his hood, revealing the round green eyes and refined face of a Vallè, upturned ears just visible through strands of black hair. His facial features were smooth, unblemished, and sharp.

  Roguemoore’s startled gaze widened. “Val-Draekin.” He stood, nervous smile forming under his bushy beard.

  The Vallè named Val-Draekin untied his cloak, revealing fine black leather armor studded with shined layers of ring mail about the neckline. Nail noted the hang of the Vallè’s sword and the way he carried it at his hip, as if born with it. The Vallè’s gaze swept the table, yet never focused on any single one of them. He did offer a nod of recognition to Culpa Barra. “I come at the behest of Jondralyn.” Val-Draekin bent his knee again to the dwarf. Roguemoore acknowledged the Vallè’s bow with a congenial nod of his own, his hardened gaze fixed on the second cloaked figure.

  When the second stranger removed her hood, Nail scooted his chair back involuntarily, heart lurching in his chest. It was a Vallè woman. A very familiar Vallè woman. With perfect narrow ears, hair of lustrous silvery-white waves, slanting, needle-thin eyebrows above high-boned cheeks and full lips, this sharp-featured Vallè maiden looked exactly like the Bloodwood Shawcroft had murdered.

  Some pallid light glowed just beneath her skin and he couldn’t look away. It was as if this strange girl’s very ethereal presence pulled at him. His eyes locked on hers—they were large, almond-shaped orbs, irises startlingly green, which seemed to devour everything they touched, especially when they met his. It was as if she knew all his secrets and dreams with but a look. He glanced away from her gaze.

  “Seita.” Roguemoore bowed before her. “What brings you?”

  A graceful smile played at the corners of her mouth. But her eyes remained fixed on Nail as she answered the dwarf. “Once Val-Draekin told me who would be here with you, Ser Roguemoore, how could I not come?”

  * * *

  But ’twas the angel stones, above all other gifts, that were to be used to banish the demons and their lords into the underworld. Each stone bonded to one of the weapons of the Five Warrior Angels.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  TALA BRONACHELL

  17TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Tala sat on a cushioned divan in the center of her own bedchamber, Lawri Le Graven brushing her hair with a silver Avlonia hand brush—a gift from Lord Nolan Darkliegh to Alana Bronachell, a royal heirloom bequeathed to Tala at her mother’s death. The morning’s crisp coolness lay heavy in the room. The silver brush was clunky and cold as Lawri ran it through her hair. The stiff tines tugged painfully at Tala’s scalp. It didn’t help that her hair was wet from her recent bath. She worried it might freeze in clumps right there atop her head.

  Lawri’s unbandaged arm hovered just inside Tala’s vision. A gloomy raw scar ran a ragged puss-infected trail up the length of her left forearm from her inner wrist to the underside of her elbow. It looked to have never been stitched closed. “Did you not go to the infirmary for that?” she asked.

  Lawri brushed her hair in silence. Tala tried to lighten the tenor of her question. “I’ve never seen Jovan so frightened as when that dagger sliced your arm.” Her voice weakened. “Actually, I’ve likely never been so frightened.”

  “I’m glad he cut me,” Lawri said quickly.

  “What?” Tala was puzzled. “Why?”

  “Something was growing inside of me.” Lawri worked the brush through Tala’s hair a bit more slowly now. “I could feel it. A thing within me. A thing that brought on fevers, aches in every joint, even bad dreams. Jovan cutting me released all that.”

  “That makes scant little sense to me.” Tala was even more bewildered, and frankly disturbed. It was the Bloodwood poison that caused Lawri’s fevers.

  “It mostly relieved the pain in my heart,” Lawri said.

  “Jovan cutting your wrist relieved the pain in your heart?”

  “Not really my heart,” Lawri continued, “but more like the pain of my . . .” She paused. “It’s hard to explain, Tala. It’s not really a pain I was trying to relieve. Or even a fever or a thing. But more like . . . my sin, I guess.”

  “The dagger relieved your sin?” Tala questioned.

  “Something like that.”

  “But Laijon has already relieved us of sin. Have you not read The Way and Truth of Laijon? Have you never been to the Hallowed Grove and looked upon the Atonement Tree?”

  “Yes,” Lawri answered. “But the scriptures never did me any good. They only make me feel worse about myself. Same with that tree.”

  “Laijon’s ways are not our ways,” Tala countered. The entire conversation was odd and becoming frustrating to follow. “Ofttimes we must work hard to discover the words of comfort in the holy book.”

  “That’s something the vicar would say, and completely unhelpful.” The silver brush was working through Tala’s hair rapidly now, roughly even. Lawri went on. “I picked up a piece of clear broken glass a few days ago. Stared at it for hours, studying it as if it were a copy of The Way and Truth of Laijon, trying to decipher its invisible meaning. But in the end, it was naught but a solid hunk of clear glass, naught but a see-through mystery. Completely unhelpful, completely useless. Useless but for one thing.”

  “Useless but for what?” Tala asked.

  “I used it to cut my arm open again,” Lawri answered casually. “To drain the infection. It made me feel, I guess, better somehow.” She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “Again, no more fever. No more heartaches. Thoughts of Laijon or the Atonement Tree never made me feel such relief as pushing and squeezing that infection out of my body. With Laijon and the holy book, I only feel more guilt. But by operating on myself, I found I could focus on just that one thing: easing the pain of the wound. Instead of my mind always focusing on the things around me I can’t control. I could control this.”

  Tala had the strong sense of being on the outside of all she was hearing, of standing on a cliff ledge belonging to a world she knew nothing of. The whole thing horrified her and made her sad. She realized her own self-imposed self-reliance had left a savage and bruised mark on her own soul that needed healing. And Lawri deals with her pain in her own way. But operating on yourself as if you were an expert Vallè healer could not be the answer. She just couldn’t relate to anything her cousin was saying.

  “When I feel dead inside,” Lawri continued, “I think of that shard of clear glass and the relief I found in cleansing my wound. Jovan cutting me. It made me feel alive, Tala. And I need to be reminded of that. And I need to feel alive.”

  “So you never did go to Val-Gianni and have him look at your wound?”

  “I told you, I don’t want anyone to ever know Jovan cut me. I do not want the grand vicar thinking he can heal me with his stupid anointings ever again.”


  Suddenly it all made sense to Tala. Her cousin’s strange behavior and torment was related to Grand Vicar Denarius and the blessings he’d given her. Somewhere in the part of her heart where Laijon’s spirit sometimes whispered to her, Tala knew that Denarius might have truly been performing a priestly service. But what she had seen that day in the secret ways spoke of something more disturbing and depraved. Seeing Lawri naked with the vicar was a sinister quandary that chipped away at her soul.

  And if it bothers me so, how can Lawri do anything but ruminate on it?

  Then a more horrifying thought struck her. “You said you had a dream about me and the vicar, remember?”

  “You marrying Grand Vicar Denarius is a dream that fades more each day.” Lawri continued brushing Tala’s hair. “I implore you, pay it no mind, Tala. You mustn’t fret over the silly dreams of a court girl like me. I’ve many fading dreams. I dream nightly that I am searching for something in that red-hazed room with the cross-shaped altar. The room where the Bloodwood stabbed you.”

  Tala’s blood turned cold. The room where Glade murdered Prentiss!

  “Common nightmares,” Lawri continued. “Just the other night I dreamed Lindholf would live out the remainder of his life in a dungeon cage. But why would my brother ever get put into a dungeon? Naught but silliness. Dreams never come true anyway.” There resided a deep sadness in Lawri’s voice. “Leastways not mine.”

  Dreams! The Bloodwood claimed her cousin’s madness wasn’t over. Your cute little cousin is only partially healed of what afflicts her. Make no mistake, she will spiral into insanity and die if she is not regularly fed more of the antidote. But she hadn’t heard from the Bloodwood in more than ten days. She also hadn’t yet given Lawri any of the green balls of antidote. The assassin’s satchel was sitting right under the stool next to the hearth that dominated her room. She had to act now or lose the nerve entirely.