The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  It was the serving wench who he had seen giving out pastries in Sunbird Hall during the Mourning Moon Celebration, the girl who had attempted to assassinate King Jovan. And then it dawned on him: she was also the girl rumored to have escaped from Purgatory not long after Hawkwood had.

  Heart pounding, Lindholf gripped the small black dagger in his pocket, mind whirling. He watched as the girl followed the cart at a distance. Despite the jostling crowd, her movements through the streets were as light as goose down floating. And he couldn’t help noticing how beautiful she was. But why would she be following this cart?

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Stop the cart, Glade!”

  “What for?” Glade turned about and threw him a stern look. “We ain’t stoppin’ until we get to the whorehouse.”

  “You don’t understand.” Lindholf scrambled to his feet and launched himself over the side of the cart, dropping to the street below. He staggered upon landing and rolled to a stop on the dusty stone street. For some reason it seemed a bad idea to tell Glade about the barmaid. No good could come of it.

  “Bloody Mother Mia!” Glade shouted as Alain slowed the oxen. “What in the bloody fuck you doing, you fool?” Glade called back. “Get back in the cart!” All three Silver Guards were looking at Lindholf, both amusement and scorn on their faces.

  “I’m not going with you!” Lindholf stood and dusted himself off, eyes darting from Glade into the crowd and back. He could no longer see the barmaid in the blue cloak and crown of heather. “I’m not going back to the castle!” He had to find the girl.

  “Have you lost your bloody fucking mind!” Glade shouted. “Today was to be your lucky day! I was gonna pay the fattest slag at the brothel to fuck your tiny cock raw!”

  “I don’t want any woman whose been purchased! I want to be left alone!”

  “Idiot!” Glade turned to Alain. “Leave him.”

  Alain snapped the reins and the oxcart carried on, trundling down the cobbled road without him, and was soon swallowed up by the crowd.

  Lindholf felt a tug on his leggings and turned to find a grimy-faced street urchin sitting on a flat board with four small wooden wheels. The child had no legs. “A crust of bread for a hungry boy?” the child pleaded, holding up a grubby hand.

  “Bloody Mother Mia.” Lindholf staggered backward up the street, eyes fixed on the crippled child. The legless boy slapped his hands on the cobbles and pushed toward him. “Nothing for a starving boy?” He rolled his flat cart with ease over the cobbles and through the crowd. Horrified, Lindholf backed away still.

  Then a hand latched on to his, fingers entwined, and he was pulled away through the crowd. It was the busty barmaid from the Filthy Horse Saloon who led him by the hand. She dragged him hastily toward an alleyway situated between a squat herb shop and a dark smithy, smoke billowing from its large chimney. Once they were a half-dozen paces up the narrow alley, Lindholf jerked away from her grip. “What are you doing?” His eyes couldn’t help but stray to her chest—the one feature he remembered most about her.

  The wreath of white heather sat afloat in her honey-colored hair. She had dimples and freckles sprinkled over rosy cheeks under grayish-blue eyes. She was standing so very close to him now, and smelled of perfume and heather. He asked again, “What are you doing?”

  “Shush.” She put her finger to his lips and looked about with worry. Then she leaned into him slightly. He could feel her sweet breath on his neck, breath that also smelled of heather. “Listen to me,” she said. “I know you have it.”

  He stepped back, senses alert, eyes roaming the alley. They were alone. Could I escape the same exact way we came? He looked back at her. “Have what?”

  “The white shield.”

  He stepped back again, almost stumbling, his stomach a solid knot of fear. His hand went to the dagger in his pocket. “Who are you?”

  “I’m no one.”

  “You were a serving girl in the saloon. At the celebration in the castle.”

  “My name is Delia.” She moved toward him, her hand seeking the collar of his shirt. Finding it, she pulled her face close to his again. “I’ve been watching you,” she whispered in a throaty voice. “Ever since you came into the Filthy Horse Saloon with Tala Bronachell, I’ve been following you.”

  He slunk away from her again. “Aren’t you the one who stabbed the king?”

  “I watched you pickpocket those mercenaries in the Slaver’s Tavern. Watched you escape with the two Vallè and ride off to the Hallowed Grove and sniff the powder.”

  “You’ve followed me?”

  She touched him on the chest with the palm of her hand. “I know you have the white shield.”

  “The shield?” His mind was awhirl. She followed me? “But you couldn’t possibly have followed me down into Purg—” He stopped.

  Delia leaned in, her breath hot on his neck now, her lips full and sensual. “I was told you were a thief, that you would be the bearer of the white shield, long before we ever met.” She cupped his chin gently in her fingers, traced the burn scars on his face, down his neck. “And I have dreamed of you ever since.”

  Her delicate warm hand left his skin as she slid her fingers into the cleft between her bosoms and pulled out a red leather pouch as small as her thumb. He could still feel the lingering touch of her supple fingers on his face as she opened the bag and showed him the contents within. “And I know you need this.”

  It was Shroud of the Vallè. So mesmerizingly glorious, white and pure against the stark red of the leather. Her full lips parted and she licked the tip of her index finger, then dipped the finger into the bag. “Taste,” she offered.

  Her moist fingertip was covered in white powder. Then she forced the top of her silky finger past his lips. And taste it he did. The euphoria hit him immediately.

  The exhilarating sensation of the white powder on his tongue, in his mouth, sliding down his throat, wasn’t like the outright ecstasy of sniffing it. But the feeling that engulfed him was like returning home after a long and sorrowful and lonely journey.

  “I have all the powder you could ever need.” Her words not only spoke to him, but stung at his heart with curiosity and craving. “If you want more,” she said, “bring the shield to the Filthy Horse Saloon, my love.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “Shhhhh.” Delia put her finger to his lips again, looked at him with eyes as soft as an evening breeze. “Just come to the saloon. Stay with me there. As my special guest.”

  Delia tucked the red pouch full of powder down between her breasts again. She lifted the wreath of white heather from her head and handed it to him. “This will see you safely into the saloon and to my quarters.”

  When he took the wreath of heather, she slowly stepped backward down the narrow alley, saying, “And don’t forget to also bring the white stone.”

  Then she turned and scurried away, cape billowing behind her in a thick blue wave.

  * * *

  At the death of Laijon, the Last Warrior Angels by nature have become the children of wrath, for they shall slay those they deem wicked.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  TALA BRONACHELL

  3RD DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  Cember Tower—the tallest spire of Amadon Castle—pierced the low-lying clouds above the city. The observatory atop the tower was the one place Tala’s father had called his own. The one place only the royal family was allowed. The one place Borden Bronachell would bring his three oldest children for private talks. It was where he got to know each of them; reading to them, teaching them, discussing the history of the Five Isles with them. It was a place Tala had not set foot in since her father had left for war and never returned. It was an eerie place, haunted by her father’s absence.

  Jovan had summoned his three siblings here on this cloudy evening. Tala, Jondralyn, and Ansel had been escorted by the Dayknig
hts up through the dizzying warrens and courtyards of the castle to the high point of Mount Albion, where the base of the tower stood. They had hiked the remaining five hundred steps to the pinnacle unescorted. Jovan awaited them at the top.

  The circular observatory at the top was crowned in slabs of black rock, five arched stone columns holding the black stone roof up. Five stone benches lined the chest-high balustrade walls in front of the columns. The floor was rough stone.

  The tower seemed to sway in the moaning breeze that dragged through the five gaping openings of the observatory, rippling the thick waves of Jovan Bronachell’s shoulder-length brown hair. The king, wrapped in a fur-trimmed cloak, leaned against the stone balustrade, looking out over the city. Upon their entry, he turned.

  He faced Jondralyn, the timbre of his voice cutting through the wind. “I see the Prince of Saint Only has scarcely left your side since Denarius officially deemed him a free man.”

  “That is the point of the arena, to earn one’s freedom,” Jondralyn answered, breathing heavily from the long march up the stairs. She wore a simple black gown under an equally black robe tied at her waist. White bandages covered her facial injuries. She held Ansel’s hand in her own; the youngest Bronachell looked up at the king with pure childlike admiration.

  Tala drifted to the nearest balustrade and looked down over Amadon. Shrouded in a blanket of cloud, the entire city was obscured in rolling puffs of white. Jutting up like a needle through the clouds to the northwest of her was the grand and elegant Swensong Spire. Other towers thrust up through the clouds too: Blue Sword, Black Spear, and Confessor Tower, along with Martin’s Spire, Sansom Spire, and a half dozen more named after dead grand vicars.

  Jovan beckoned Ansel forward. The boy bounded into his older brother’s arms. Jovan hugged him close, twirled him about, then set him down again. Ansel clung to his leg. “Squireck’s journey in the arena is not over yet. Gault Aulbrek is a formidable foe, capable of causing great bodily harm.” He ruffled Ansel’s hair. “As you no doubt know.”

  “Is this why you summoned me, for ridicule?” Jondralyn asked. “You could have done that in Sunbird Hall, or your own chamber, or sent Leif Chaparral to do the ridiculing for you. Squireck will not die in the arena. He will slay Gault. I promise you.”

  “Squireck will die,” Jovan countered. “It is a foregone conclusion.”

  “Will you have the quorum of five poison Gault’s blade? Their meddling didn’t foil the will of Laijon the first time. And it will not now. Squireck has a destiny.”

  “You are right, Jondralyn,” Jovan said, a touch of dismay in his voice. “I did not summon you here for ridicule. I wish to make amends. I wish for our family to come together in this dark time. I wish for us all to work together. Some of my favorite memories were of the three of us listening to Father’s wisdom atop this tower. I have missed this place. I have missed my father.”

  “I, too, have missed this place, and him. Our mother, too,” Jondralyn said. “Borden did have a way of making us all feel like kings.”

  Jovan said, “I wish to include both you and Tala in the decision making going forward. All of Gul Kana, along with Amadon, will soon face the greatest days in all history. Prophecies in The Way and Truth of Laijon are coming to pass. Things must be made aright, not just within our realm, but among all of us. I should seek the advice of my sisters during this trying time.” He looked at Jondralyn, searching for something in her demeanor. But the bandages blocked her facial expression. “I must ask, Jon, how are you holding up now that Hawkwood is again imprisoned in Purgatory?”

  “I hope he is comfortable,” Jondralyn answered, something like fear creeping into her eye. “He is no traitor. He did much to save my life.”

  “Denarius wishes for Hawkwood to be hung in the arena. He wants him hung after the match between Gault Aulbrek and Squireck.”

  “And you will listen to the grand vicar and do his bidding, I assume?”

  “He is wise and we must follow his counsel.” The king looked from Jondralyn to Tala. “You both must learn that above all else. It is another reason I brought you here.”

  “To extol the virtues of the grand vicar,” Jondralyn said.

  “I am only trying to do the right thing.”

  “You truly want my advice?” Jondralyn asked. “Train every woman in Gul Kana to fight. Give them swords and armor and double the size of our armies. We are ill-equipped to battle Aeros Raijael.”

  “Your injury speaks to the usefulness of women in battle.”

  “You ask my advice,” Jondralyn snarled. “I give it, and all I get is scorn.” She whirled and headed for the stairs.

  “Stay!” Jovan pleaded.

  But Jondralyn was gone, retreating down the circular stairwell.

  Jovan unhooked the silver brooch at his chest, loosening the cloak around his shoulders. The decorative ring mail underneath was dull in the foggy gloom of the tower. His eyes met Tala’s. “Do you wish to run off too?”

  “I do not want to be here,” Tala answered. “If I’m to be honest. This place only makes me feel sad.”

  “I do love you both,” Jovan said. “You must believe that. I do love my sisters. My own kin.”

  “You say you love us,” Tala responded. “But you don’t accept who we are. So how is that love?”

  “I have always accepted you.”

  She thought of his affair with Leif. “What does love look like?” she asked him. Then quickly answered her own question. “It’s the acceptance of who someone is. Totally. As much as you say you love us, it doesn’t mean anything if you don’t accept who we are as people.” She took a step to leave.

  “Won’t you stay and talk?” His expression was empty. “I used to enjoy our talks. Did you not too? You offered me much comfort after I was stabbed, when Jondralyn did not. Yet we haven’t spoken in weeks. Seems you avoid me.”

  Tala felt bitterness darken her voice. “Last we talked, you went into a rage, berated me for dressing as a man, and practically tore my clothes off in the courtyard. Or have you forgotten? You humiliated me in front of Glade and Lindholf. You cut Lawri.”

  His expression deadened even more. “May the wraiths take Lawri Le Graven. They probably already have. Licking the blood from her own wound like that, licking her own arm like a roast ham. It is unseemly. No, she’s crazy and there is naught else to it.”

  “She’s crazy because of what the vicar does to her.”

  “I will not have you speak evil of Denarius in my presence. We have been over this before.”

  “So you will not allow my opinion as you will not allow Jondralyn’s. Even though that is why you summoned us here.” She looked out into the lurking fog.

  “Why are you so bitter?” he asked.

  “Bitter?” She turned, exasperated. “Denarius has taken advantage of Lawri!”

  “Stop saying that.”

  “All you want to do is silence me. And that is the very reason I see no need to speak to you anymore. Because my voice is not to be heard.”

  “Fine.” His tone softened—just a touch, though. “We are here, now. Speak what you will, my sister. But I insist you leave the vicar and the Church of Laijon out of our conversations. For such ill and negative talk of them is unproductive.”

  She met his gaze, measuring his sincerity, which wasn’t much. Go ahead and talk, my sister, but not about any subject I am sensitive to. Tala knew she could dredge up a plethora of sensitive subjects with ease. She wanted to know how deep were his lies. “Did you send Jondralyn off to die?” she asked.

  His eyes dropped to Ansel, still clinging to his leg.

  Tala plowed on. “Did you give Leif instructions to make sure my sister died?”

  Jovan’s eyes stayed on Ansel for a moment. Then he looked up at her. “I do not want our Ansel to hear such accusations.” His voice came out cold and precise in intent.

  “He is too young to understand our conversations,” Tala said. She would not be so easily swayed. She wanted
to see his lies, hear them from his own mouth, hate him thoroughly for them. And in doing so, she could finally dissociate herself from him once and for all. She didn’t care anymore. She wanted something to hate. Someone to blame. And Jovan was now her target. “Did you give Leif orders to make sure Jondralyn died?”

  “Why thrust these hurtful accusations upon me now?”

  “Did you send Jondralyn off in hopes that she would die?”

  “I did not.”

  “You lie.”

  “You dare accuse me?”

  “I dare!” she shouted. Ansel’s eyes widened. He might have been too young to understand the implications of their words, but he knew what yelling was.

  Jovan’s hands were now gripping the boy’s shoulders. “Do not raise your voice at your king.”

  “Or what, you’ll make me fight a duel in the arena to shut me up?”

  His face strained in anger. “You are worse than Jondralyn!” He let go of Ansel’s shoulders and reached out to grab her.

  She darted away. “Will you tear at my clothes again?” She grabbed at the hem of her own dress, lifting it, taunting him. “Don’t you know I only wear these silly girl skirts just so you will keep your hands off me!”

  He stopped his pursuit, brows furrowed in concern. She had thrown him off. She continued, “I’d hate to imagine what depravities you’d heap upon me if I truly were a boy.”

  His posture slumped as hurt dragged over his face. But she was not touched by his vulnerability; feigned or not, she didn’t care. Not anymore. “I will tell everyone your secrets,” she hissed.

  Concern grew behind his eyes. “We’ve gotten off to the wrong start, sister. Please. Let us begin anew. Let us not play games.”

  Tala regarded him with cold calculation now. “Do you even know what makes you dangerous, Jovan, what makes you feared by those beneath you?”

  “Oh, this should be good,” he scoffed in an obvious attempt to regain some semblance of composure. “Please regale me with your opinion, dear sister.”