“What if I refuse?” she answered, not willing to completely trust him.
“I am bigger than you.” He smiled, but not all cruelness had completely vanished behind that smile. There was still some danger to him. He bowed again. “But I would never force you to do something you do not want to do. The choice is yours. Think of it as my way of helping you purge what future pains may come.”
She took the goblet from him and drank. And as she gulped the wine down, she realized that since she’d been captured, the beetle carving was the first gift she had given anyone, and the drink of wine, the first gift she had willingly accepted. Oh, Aeros had given her things, useless trinkets and gems, and she had given him things, her body, but those were all tokens of captivity and an extension of the unbearable flavor of his personality. This wine from the Bloodwood was divine. And she liked partaking.
She and the Bloodwood drank of the bottle until they were both drunk.
† † † † †
Twenty-fourth day of the Ethic Moon and Bainbridge should have been full of devotees of the Church of Laijon attending Eighth Day services. But that wasn’t to be.
As Aeros Raijael and his contingent of Knights of the Blue Sword ushered Ava Shay through the rain-soaked town, she could see the stark remains of the vaulted cathedral, smoke billowing from every shattered window, doors smashed open, revealing the orange glow of the raging inferno inside.
Before the attack, Bainbridge had been full of tall stone-and-timber buildings and archways glistening with color and pride. Now Ava passed under smoke-charred archways festooned with naught but withered webs of burnt ivy and blackened flowers. This once proud town was now dead, its once grand structures smoldering in final surrender. The entirety of this once thriving community was now reduced to filthy streets painted with soot and the blood of a thousand Bainbridge fighters. Black smoke everywhere. Drunk on the Spider’s wine, Ava was forced to gulp the fetid air down her constricting throat. She thought she might vomit. Her limbs weakened with each inebriated step through town, one thought on her mind. Laijon has forsaken all of Gul Kana just as he has forsaken me!
The rain picked up, clearing out the smoke, and the clearer the air became, the more street carnage Ava’s bleary eyes saw: burnished helms, gilt-worked mail, breastplates, gauntlets, swords, a broken pike here, a sheared lance head there, the regal folds of the fallen Bainbridge standards amidst the silent heaps of warhorses in pools of curdling scarlet. The bodies. The butchery. The manure. A severed arm lying there forgotten. The splatter and aftermath of the sacking of another Gul Kana town, and rainwater ran in rivulets from it all, creating myriad dull reflections dancing back at Ava, blurring her drunken vision even further. She closed her eyes and blindly let Aeros guide her by the hand.
When they arrived on the beach south of town, Hammerfiss’ and Enna Spades’ random torture of the survivors seemed mostly over. Ava was glad for that one relief. The group of surviving captives huddled in fear near Aeros’ two henchmen. The corpse-strewn beach stank with a mix of salt water and blood as the last few sprinkles of rain fell. The red-streaked waters of Bainbridge Bay were crisscrossed with strands of white froth. Down where the waves curled against the shore, Ava saw pigeons circling low and crabs scuttling in the surf. Several mangy dogs barked at each other, eating what scraps of battle they could.
In the distance, Mancellor Allen and Jenko Bruk were pulling a heavily armored Bainbridge knight north through a stretch of sand blackened with gore. They grasped the man by one leg each, dragging him along the bloody shore toward Hammerfiss and Spades. The Bainbridge knight clutched frantically at the ground, face and gauntleted hands carving furrows in the sand.
The tattoo ink under Mancellor’s eyes glistened black in the rain as he hauled the captive to his feet in front of Hammerfiss and Spades and the remaining Bainbridge prisoners—most of them young boys and teenage fighters. All the women and young children had previously fled the town, running north. Ava was glad for that. She couldn’t bear the torture of more little ones. This daily dose of savagery and torture she was forced to watch was the reason she drank so much. To cover the pain. Mask the horrors.
“Found him untying a skiff from the docks.” Mancellor bowed to Spades and Hammerfiss, motioning to the knight between him and Jenko. He bowed to the White Prince too. “The baron of Bainbridge, Ser Brender Wayland, or so he says.”
“A baron, you say?” A crazed grin broke over Hammerfiss’ face. “Trying to make his escape, no doubt.”
Ava knew things would not go well for this man named Brender Wayland. His eyes widened at the sight of the White Prince. In all his pale, harsh elegance, Aeros Raijael had that eye-widening effect on people.
Aeros left her side and walked toward the baron. “Did you fight or did you flee, Ser Wayland?” he asked. “I’ve fast come to realize the barons in this kingdom are of a weak heart when it comes to war.”
Brender did not answer.
“If you refuse to answer,” Aeros continued, “I will have Spades do as she will. And it will not be pretty, mind you, Ser Wayland.” The rain started up again.
Ava wondered if this doomed baron with the last name of Wayland was any relation to Stefan. Of course, Stefan had escaped the prisoner tent in Gallows Haven with Nail, Gisela, and Liz Hen. She wondered where her friend was now.
“Looks like Ser Wayland has no tongue,” Aeros said. The increasing rain pinged with more force against the armor of the Sør Sevier knights gathered around.
“We must therefore help him find his tongue.” Hammerfiss grinned.
“Jenko, fetch an abandoned longsword off the beach, a sharp one for Ser Wayland’s lost tongue,” Spades ordered. Brender Wayland trembled.
Jenko strode across the savaged beach, snatching a longsword from the stiff hand of the first dead Knight of the Blue Sword he saw.
Today Aeros’ army had lost near a hundred warriors in the fight. The White Prince had called it the first real bloody fray they had come across in Gul Kana so far. He had seemed energized by it. In fact, the entire Sør Sevier army had fought with relish once they’d realized that not all had fled Bainbridge as had been the case in previous towns. A decent-sized army of three thousand men had stayed to fight them.
Bainbridge was ten times the size of Ravenker and Bedford—and those were both twice the size of Gallows Haven. Still, over the past few weeks, the White Prince’s army had swelled to more than thirty thousand. And Aeros’ force kept growing as ship after ship arrived daily from Wyn Darrè, bearing Sør Sevier soldiers. They made short work of Bainbridge’s three thousand men. Aeros claimed they would have well over fifty thousand well-seasoned knights on Gul Kana soil by the time they reached Lord’s Point, with another two hundred thousand in Adin Wyte poised to strike Lord’s Point from across the shallow strait east of Saint Only, and then maybe double that when they marched on Amadon.
When Jenko Bruk returned with the sword he’d gathered, Spades took the weapon and held it out to Ser Brender Wayland, hilt in one palm, blade in the other, arms straight out, as if offering him a precious gift.
“I’ve a deal for you, Ser Wayland,” Spades said, bending her knee to the man. Brender looked at the weapon being offered him, but made no move to take it.
“The deal is this,” Spades continued. “Best any Sør Sevier fighter of my choosing in single combat, and the armies of Aeros Raijael will gather our gear and set sail back to our homeland, never to torment Gul Kana again.”
Brender looked her in the eye. “And how do I know you will honor such a deal?”
“A fight to the death, Ser. Do you agree to the terms?”
Brender Wayland took the sword, tested its weight. It fit naturally in his gauntleted hands. His eyes fell on the row of Bainbridge captives lined up behind Spades. “If I win, you promise your armies will leave?”
“I promise.”
Some captives stood a little straighter now. But Ava knew it was a pointless hope she saw building i
n their eyes. For she knew that within Spades brooded a taste for mindless violence, a streak of ruthlessness unmatched. And a penchant for making deals that she knew she would win. Still, their hope seemed to bolster Brender’s confidence. “I accept your deal then,” he said.
Spades turned to face Jenko Bruk. “Kill him, Jenko.”
Ava sucked in a deep breath. Jenko’s eyes found hers as he drew his sword. She wanted to shout at him, Let Brender kill you! Let’s see if they do as Spades promised and never torment Gul Kana again! But a head full of wine and her own fear made it impossible to say anything, let alone shout it across the bloody beach.
The two men squared off in the sand, swords at the ready, both silver blades now slick with rain. Brender’s sword slashed out first, a quick strike from the left that Jenko blocked with fluid ease. Jenko countered with a downward swing at Brender’s legs. The baron blocked low. Jenko’s second swing went high, straight toward the man’s head. The baron blocked high, losing his balance just enough, his sword arm flailing up over his head. And Jenko thrust with a powerful, two-handed stab that punched right through the man’s armpit. The baron’s eyes went wide with astonishment and pain.
“You’ve killed me?” Brender finally croaked, voice dry with looming death. It seemed as if the rain even ceased its falling at that moment. “Why kill any of us, you Sør Sevier scum?” His mouth gaped open in silent agony as he slid off Jenko’s long blade and clattered to the sand in a pile of useless shiny armor. The steady flow of rain rattling off the dead man was the only sound now.
Then came the heavy sobs of one of the Bainbridge captives, a young man overburdened with grief and despair. All Ava could think about was that with his last words, Brender had called Jenko “Sør Sevier scum.” Brender probably had no idea Jenko knew Stefan. That Stefan had worked on Baron Bruk’s grayken-hunting ship. That the two had once been friends. That thought sobered her up. Did Jenko have no pity in his own soul? He could have lost the fight, let Brender slay him, ended all the bloodshed and torture. But then she recalled what Jenko had implied not long after they’d been captured by Aeros: We all do what we can to survive. Could I have sacrificed myself? she wondered. Can I kill myself? Now and then, in the dark watches of the night, she found herself groping for the strength to do just that, to just end it all. And then she would merely drink from Aeros’ wine stash until it didn’t matter anymore. Jenko had given her the knife, with the instruction to use it on Aeros. But who will I use it on?
As she stood upon the beach and fought to contain the spirits and turmoil dwelling in her drunken mind, the rude shapes of the smoldering buildings of Bainbridge clung to her periphery. She would pity herself no more. Only I can mend my own hurt. Her mind was focused on the knife Jenko had slipped into her shirt a week ago. It was hidden now. Cleverly hidden. And she would use it. She would not be a victim anymore.
Sør Sevier scum. ’Twas the dying words of Baron Brender that convinced her. She cast her eyes on the crumpled body of Brender Wayland. Standing triumphant over his body was Jenko Bruk, cleaning blood from his sword.
And Jenko met her gaze with a fierce, unforgiving stare.
† † † † †
“I hate cowardly bootlickers and fawning ass kissers.” Aeros’ head rose up out of the streaming water, white hair plastered around his skull. The rain had ended, and the stars were now a-twinkle above. The opening in the roof of Aeros’ tent let in a soft breeze. Ava was no longer drunk as before. She had declined what few tankards of wine Aeros had offered. Luckily, he hadn’t forced it down her anyway.
She knelt beside the White Prince’s steaming iron tub, wearing naught save his pearl-colored doublet, naked underneath. The doublet was open in the middle, covering just her shoulders and back. Aeros insisted she not lace the front. He liked to gaze upon her partial nakedness as she bathed him. And he was gazing at her now. “Thing is”—he blinked the water from his eyes—“a fawning bootlicker never knows he is a bootlicker.”
“Am I a fawning bootlicker?” As soon as the question spilled from her lips, she cursed her own brashness.
His dark-pupiled eyes stayed fixed to her chest. “You? Bootlicker?” He looked into her eyes after a moment, clearly annoyed. “Don’t be daft.”
“I only tease.” She added a mischievous, playful squeeze as she rubbed his shoulders. Massaging him like this only built up more revulsion in her. His skin under the bathwater was slick as warmed porcelain. She recalled washing the white dishes Ol’ Man Leddingham sometimes used to bring up out of the Grayken Spear cellar for important travelers. Aeros’ flesh under the hot water looked like those fine dishes in Leddingham’s wash water. She said, “I thought you desired I be more playful.”
“Just stay silent and massage my back and neck. Let me relax. I will let you know when it is time to play. Your unasked-for efforts at playfulness come across as hurtful.”
If he only knew how much I desire to hurt him. She could still see the drowned baby floating away, facedown in the cold stream near Leifid. Caressing his flesh made her feel more dead inside by the minute. The white bear rug under her knees, the opulence of the tent and its furnishings, the crystal decanters lined along the tub, the candles, the spacious opening in the roof of the tent and the stars twinkling above, the herbs in the perfumed hot water, the steaminess of it all—normally things so luxurious and fine to a girl who dreamed of romance. But who lives such fantasies anymore?
Her fingers trailed slowly up to his chin and back down to his shoulders. The pale purple veins in his neck looked so close and vulnerable in the wet and steamy air. And my fingernails have grown so long. The knife Jenko had given her was currently hidden under incense ashes and burnt herbs within her gold censer atop a table in the draped room that served as her own water closet. And that closet was right next to Aeros’ bedroom and bath. So close!
“I feel there is too much bootlicking and ass kissing within your friend Jenko,” he said. “I know he desires to move up in the ranks of my army. And I admire his determination and devotion. He does indeed possess some traits that you do not. . . .”
He paused. “Are you even listening to me?” He gazed up at her, annoyed. She pressed harder with her fingers, working the muscles under his flesh.
There was a white towel on the brass table near the tub. He lifted his arm from the water and wiped the palm of his hand on it, then the back of his hand too. “I fear you don’t listen to me. You scarcely remember much of anything I tell you.”
“Pardon, my lord, I do try and listen.”
“No, I think not,” he said. “I can tell you something very important, and then the very next day I can ask you about it and it’s as if it’s the first time you heard of it. It vexes me. I am sorely vexed by you. Completely and absolutely vexed.”
Ava just kept working his flesh beneath her fingers. Silent.
“Remember when we first met?” he asked. “How I claimed we would become the best of friends? That one day you would come to worship me?”
“I remember.”
He sat up straight in the water, craned his neck, and looked back at her. “I lose control around you, my love.” His face, covered in a thin film of sweat from the heat of the tub, glistened in the candlelight. He resituated himself in the water, facing her. With his dry hand, he touched her breast under the doublet, his fingers circling the nipple. She wanted to draw back, but she remained stoic. She would not let her revulsion show. His voice was throaty, rich. “When you first came to me, you were my prisoner. Now I am yours.”
“If you say.” She smiled with a slight tilt of her chin.
“I’m plagued with hazy dreams,” he continued. “Muddy dreams. Even whilst awake. Visions of the future, if you will. These dreams . . . they afflict me and make me think the wraiths have me in their foul clutch.” Ava shuddered at his mention of the wraiths.
“Sometimes these dreams can be pleasant,” he went on. “For instance, I dreamed of you. Long before we met. I knew y
our face. So I was not surprised to find you when I did. What say you to that bit of prophecy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Some visions weigh terrible on my mind.” His hand slipped away from her breast. “Oh, few will sympathize with my situation, least of all you, I suppose.”
“I sympathize.”
“It doesn’t seem so.” He lowered his head, not looking at her anymore. “I become more like the Bloodwood day by day. I only believe in what I can see and touch and precious little else. And certainly never anything anyone says.”
She thought of Bainbridge, of Brender Wayland and his pointless death at the hands of Jenko. You’ve killed me had been the baron’s last words. Why have you killed any of us?
“Why do you fight?” she found herself asking. “Why conquer and torture?”
Aeros leaned forward in the tub, his hands back under the water, allowing her room to stroke his back. “Even your Way and Truth of Laijon speaks of Fiery Absolution,” he said. “The time is now. The Chivalric Illuminations record our deeds. Laijon knows who his true followers are. And his true followers are those who follow the bloodline of Raijael, Laijon’s one and only heir. I am of that bloodline. I am Laijon returned. And it is by his will and grace that I reclaim lands stolen so long ago.”
There was no way this monster before her was Laijon’s son returned. She knew of Fiery Absolution. Bishop Tolbret had read the prophecies from the holy book during Eighth Day services on more than one occasion. The return of Laijon was to be a glorious event. That it might come in her day, in her time of living, should have been a comfort, should have made her sing praises to Laijon. But faced with the brutal realities of war . . .
“Do you believe that the Vallè also have dreams as I do?” he asked. “Do you believe that they can also know things about the past and present and future?”
“I don’t know any Vallè.”
“You are getting along with Spiderwood, are you not?”
The Blackest Heart Page 28