“Is this where you keep the Shroud of the Vallè?” he asked, heart atremble with anticipation.
She unlatched the doors to the cabinet and opened them wide. “Of course not.”
The cabinet was empty, but deep enough for several full-grown men to hide within. Tala’s red-spiked helm sat on the floor of the cabinet. Lindholf took a hesitant step back. Bloody rotted angels! She could have henchmen down here waiting to kill you and nobody would ever know where you disappeared off to. He still had the black dagger at his belt but was only slightly reassured by its presence.
Delia held the doors of the cabinet open wide. “This is the best place to keep the shield and stone safe.”
“You want me to leave them down here?” he asked, utterly perplexed. He straightened his posture, tried to regain some small semblance of composure. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“You want more of the powder, right?” Her large eyes smoldered in the candlelight, fixed on the burlap sack in his hands. Lindholf felt his brow furrow as he glanced at the empty cabinet. His mind was tormented. The white powder was the reason he was here. He stepped forward with caution and carefully placed the shield in the cabinet. He took the angel stone from his pocket. He kept it wrapped in the black silk as he set it next to the shield. Delia closed the cabinet doors and latched them tight.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she asked. Candle in one hand, her other hand in his, she led him back through the damp tunnels and up the stairs and into the light of the courtyard. With just the slightest nudge of her toe against its base, the stone basin swung downward and closed over the hole. Covered with grass and ivy and flowers as it was, nobody would ever know what secrets lay below.
Delia escorted Lindholf back into the rear corridor of the saloon and through a separate door into what looked like her own private bedchamber. The room was small, dim, and just big enough for a bed and small cabinet. The room soon glowed with yellow light. Lindholf’s hungry eyes scanned the tiny chamber for any sign of the white powder.
“Remove your cloak,” she said, voice silky. “Relax, my love.”
He was instantly wary. Her demeanor had suddenly changed from businesslike to flirtatious. Still he took his cloak off, folded it carefully, and set it on a small stool near the cabinet. She noticed the black dagger tucked in his belt. “You won’t be needing that, my love. Take it off and set it on the stool with your cloak.”
“Why do you keep calling me your love?” His hand went to the hilt of the weapon. “You said you’ve been following me.”
“We can talk about that in a bit,” she said, eyes aimed right at his dagger. “The knife scares me. You don’t need it.”
“I don’t want it to get stolen. It should stay on my belt.”
“You needn’t defend yourself against me. Put the dagger on the stool next to your cloak, my love.”
“And you’ll give me Shroud of the Vallè?”
She nodded coyly.
Lindholf quickly did as instructed and removed the dagger, placing it on the cloak gently.
She grabbed his hand and plopped down on the bed, pulling him down next to her. It felt awkward lying there with his leather boots on. The bedcovering was fluffy and soft and dark blue. “What do you know of the Vallè?” she asked.
“You mean Shroud of the Vallè?”
“No, silly,” she giggled. “Is that all you can think about? I mean, what do you think of actual Vallè? Specifically the one who teaches you how to be a pickpocket. I would not trust him, were I you. He came into the saloon several days before you and Princess Tala and Glade came in. Princess Jondralyn and a dwarf saved his life. Another man helped too. I think his name was Hawkwood. Tell me what you know of this Vallè, and the Vallè maiden he is always with.”
“Val-Draekin?”
“Yes, Val-Draekin.” Her hand shot to his arm, grasping it tight. “I served him pastry at the Mourning Moon Feast. What do you know of him and the blond Vallè maiden he is always with? She too seems untrustworthy, my love.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?” he asked again, irritated, wondering what she was after. He didn’t want a million questions. He wanted the drug he’d come for.
“Why do you act so shy?” she asked.
He felt his brow furrow. “Did you really try and kill Jovan?”
She shifted on the bed next to him. He caught a glimpse of pale cleavage at the neckline of her shirt. She saw where his eyes had roamed and leaned into him, exposing more flesh, the look in her eyes sultry. She placed her hand on his chest. “So you wonder if I fancy you?”
His mouth was suddenly dry, like it was full of cotton. “The other day in the street, you said someone told you I was ‘the thief,’ and that I would be the ‘bearer of the white shield.’ You said you’ve dreamed of me ever since. What did you mean?”
“I was told to say all that, especially about the thief stuff,” she answered, stroking his chest still, fingers delicate. “As for the other part, it’s well known, tell a boy you dream of him and he will surely fall for you.” She shrugged playfully. “And I know how to get what I want.”
It was a bad idea asking her questions. His eyes darted around the room in frustration. “Do you have any Shroud of the Vallè or not?”
Her hand drifted from his chest to his arm, fingers crawling up the sleeve of his shirt. Her brow crinkled. “What’s this?” She rolled the sleeve all the way up, revealing the scars there. He squirmed as she caressed the wounds, and he recalled the hideous face of the grotesque mermaid who had raked his arm and nearly drowned him in Memory Bay.
“Please don’t.” He brushed her hand away, remembering the horror of the mermaid and the visions he had seen under the water. He rolled down his shirtsleeve, suspicious why one so fetching as Delia would be with him. He grew instantly self-conscious about his face and the deformities he knew were there. Deformities that would always and forever be there. He was no one’s “love.”
“You haven’t answered any of my questions,” he stated, tone set with resolve.
“Nor have you answered any of mine.” There was a touch of sadness in her eyes now. The back of her fingers gently stroked his face. He pulled away. She looked hurt. “Why do you recoil from me?” Her fingers were again tender on his face, brushing lightly against his scars. “I do see you in my dreams, Lindholf Le Graven. I see you nightly. I cannot escape you. I knew you before we met.” Her face was so near his now. “I knew we would become lovers.”
“Lovers?” His own face burned with embarrassment, shame, lust—all three and more. She was so pretty. Her breasts large and shapely and right there, inches away, her full lips so lush, and the blush of her cheeks so captivating. “It’s not right for a nobleman’s son to be with a commoner.” He tried to stand, but she clutched his shirt tight, holding him still.
“I was good enough for your king.” Her face was drifting closer to his.
“But you tried to kill the king,” he muttered, drowning in her wide and perfect eyes, glowing bright orbs that stared back at him with unabashed interest. “They threw you into Purgatory.”
She kissed him lightly on the cheek, neck, brushed her tongue over his ear. A shiver lanced over his every nerve ending, spiraling down to drown in his racing heart.
“Do you desire to kiss me?” Her voice was a soft, sultry whisper. And then her lips were on him again, silky and divine, finding his mouth. He pressed his lips to hers, curled his hands around the back of her head, and pulled her close. She melted into his embrace and he could feel his whole body trembling, groin stirring to life. Surprised by the sudden sensations assailing him, he broke from her clutch.
“Did I do something wrong?” she asked, real concern in her voice.
“No—I mean—maybe,” he stammered. “I mean it feels good and all. I—just don’t—I guess—really know what I’m doing. I’m a nobleman’s son. And you’re—”
“Shhhhh.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, quieting him
. She stood and leaned over him, smothering him with her mouth again briefly before backing away. One side of her face was bathed in the soft glow from the nearby candles, the other side of her face a wash of cool in the shadows. The top lace of her woolen pantaloons was undone and they rode low on her hips—curvy hips so tantalizing and pale. “Touch me,” she said. He reached out tentatively and traced the line of her hip with his hand. She closed her eyes and moaned deeply. He was fully hard now. Achingly hard.
“I fancy you so, my love, my dear Lindholf.” She pulled her shirt over her head, exposing a glorious chest that heaved with each deep breath she took. Her breasts were the color of fine porcelain in the candlelight, not the splotchy, leathery wrecks he’d seen on the drooping bosoms that swayed below the stretched stomachs of the gap-toothed whores he had been forced to watch Glade, Tolz, Alain, and Boppard fuck.
She unstrung the last few laces on her pantaloons and pulled them down, kicking them across the floor. She was completely naked but for her white cotton bottoms.
“What are you doing?” Guilt flooded him. He was a lord’s son. A prince. Above this type of debauchery. He was not brave and amorous and unfeeling like Glade. He was not a sexual risk taker and user of women like Glade. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” he murmured. I do not want to be like Glade Chaparral!
“If you were smart,” she said, “you’d shuck them boots off and skin them pants off, too.” She pushed him gently back until he was lying flat on the plush blue bedcovering. She tugged at his belt, removed it, then began tugging at his pants next. He grabbed her hand, stopping her. “No.”
“Please,” she whispered, pulling his pants all the way off over his boots, her eyes wide with admiration as she looked upon him in that private place no female had ever looked upon him before. “So ready you are,” she said, straddling him, her thin cotton underclothes warm, delicate, the heat between her legs silky and smooth. She pressed down with her hips as she lavished him with kisses. He luxuriated in her soft touch as she moved ever so slowly, pressing her pelvis rhythmically into his. He matched her movements and she responded with a guttural moan. She then managed to squirm out of her thin white undergarment in the most pleasing way. Blood pulsed through every part of him as they were both totally naked now. He pressed his straining erection up against her tuft. It felt rough, scratchy, but in a pleasant way.
And the door to her room crashed open.
With a shriek, Delia leaped from the bed, stumbling backward into her cabinet.
Lindholf bolted upright as Glade Chaparral burst into the room, followed by Tolz, Alain, and Boppard, all four in full Silver Guard armor but for their helms, all brandishing longswords and grinning like madmen.
“Now here is one prime lassie, boys.” Glade had the tip of his sword at the barmaid’s throat in an instant. Delia shrank away, stumbling back onto the bed, right on top of Lindholf.
“Aye,” Tolz said, grinning madly. “Look at them teats.”
Lindholf wiggled from under the girl, feeling a fool with his boots still on and naught else. He covered his now flaccid groin with one hand and reached for his cloak on the stool with his other. The flat of Glade’s sword struck him. It wasn’t a hard blow, a mere warning, but Lindholf jerked his hand away in pain, a line of blood instantly seeping from the shallow wound, which stretched from the top of his middle finger to the top of his wrist. But the embarrassment of being so naked and so vulnerable had ahold of him, and he instinctively reached for his cloak a second time. The flat of Glade’s sword smacked his hand again, harder this time, drawing another line of blood across the first.
Blood welled up thick and red over his hand in the shape of a cross.
“Tsk-tsk.” Glade’s smile was wide and filled with a mischievous, self-satisfied bravado. “You will both stay exactly as you are. Naked as the day you were born.”
“See, Tolz.” Boppard leaned against the doorway, “I told you he was here. Told you I hadn’t lost him. Followed him from the castle gate right here. And you said I couldn’t do it, couldn’t track even the simplest of dolts through the streets of Amadon. Looks like you owe me six silvers.”
“And a hand job from your mother,” Alain laughed.
“Aye.” Glade sheathed his sword. “You done good, Boppard.” He removed his leather gloves. “All four of us will go down as the heroes who captured the villains who conspired to slay the king.” He looked straight at Lindholf then. “The conspirators who murdered Ser Sterling Prentiss.”
“What?” Lindholf exclaimed, swiping his bloody hand on Delia’s blue bedcovering. “Are you mad?” he croaked, voice building to a rage. “It was you who killed Sterling—”
Glade slapped him hard across the face with one of his leather gloves. “Shut your bloody, rotted mouth! May the wraiths take you, spouting a filthy lie like that. Do you not realize who I am now? Who my brother is?”
“I know you are guilty!” Lindholf raged. “I saw yo—”
A second slap across the face with the glove. Glade snarled, “ ’Tis I who find you guilty of being a lying turncoat pitiful cunt!” He reached for the cloak on the stool, threw it at Lindholf. “Go ahead, put it on if you want, cover your pathetic pasty body lest I haul you through the streets and straight to Purgatory naked but for your bloody boots.”
Lindholf, shaking with anger, wrapped the cloak around both himself and Delia. The black dagger fell from the folds of the cloak, landing on the blue bedcovering between him and Glade. Delia looked at the black-polished blade nervously.
Glade noticed it too. “I’ve seen that knife before.” His shifty eyes then narrowed to slits under dark brows. “It’s Tala’s.”
Lindholf tried to grab it. But Glade snatched it up first. “You and the girl used this knife to stab Jovan.” He looked straight at Lindholf, holding the black blade up between them. “Used it to kill Prentiss. I see your scheming heart.”
“You’re crazy,” Lindholf exclaimed.
“Don’t lie to me,” Glade growled. “You know it’s futile.” He nodded at the two knights behind him. Alain and Tolz stepped all the way into the room with purpose and took Lindholf by either arm, hauling him up from the bed, the cloak falling away.
He was naked again.
Still, the two men shoved him face-first against the wall and held him there whilst Boppard pulled a knife from his belt and placed it against his throat, saying, “One word from you and I slice your neck wide.”
Lindholf wondered why Glade hadn’t mentioned Ethic Shroud or the white angel stone yet. If Boppard truly followed me here, clearly he saw me carrying the burlap sack. Could he know what was in it? Will the girl tell them?
Then an even darker thought crossed his mind. Has she set me up?
Delia lelt out a terrified squeal.
Lindholf twisted his face away from Boppard’s cold blade, twisted it painfully against the coarse wood of the wall until he could see Glade and the naked barmaid out of the corner of his eye. She was still on the bed, Glade standing over her.
“Princess Tala Bronachell’s blade.” Glade leaned over the girl, brandishing the black dagger. Delia sat atremble on the bed before him, goose bumps rising on her pale flesh. “Lindholf fancies his cousin, you know.” Glade’s ungloved fingers were now at the steel-studded leather bucklers covering his arms. “They whisper together in dark corners, Tala and Lindholf. Always conspiring, the two of them, like little lovers are wont to do.” Glade unhooked the bucklers and tossed them aside. “You probably didn’t know your pathetic little Lindholf likes to stick his little pecker inside his cousin. So sad, you probably didn’t know you are not his first.” Glade reached out and shoved the girl back onto the bed. “Imagine, a dough-faced dolt like him getting more prime pussy than me.”
“Leave her be,” Lindholf cried out. Boppard pressed the knife hard to his neck. Tolz and Alain tightened their grip on his arms.
Glade grinned at the three knights who had Lindholf pinned to the wall, his hands at the buckles
of his plate armor next. “I tell ya, lassie, your face and tits and even your round little ass might come out of this mess in pretty good shape, if you play it right.”
Glade unhooked his breastplate and shoulder plates and let them fall to the floor with a clatter. “In fact, if matters take a congenial turn with me and my pals here, when all is said and done, well, we can all maybe remain the best of friends for a good long time.”
“No!” Tears of rage burned trails down Lindholf’s cheeks. “Please, just leave her be!”
Glade tore off his shirt next. “What say you, lassie, you may just be able to avoid Purgatory if you play it right.” And then Glade unhooked his belt and his pants dropped to the floor.
* * *
Most know that Laijon was consumed with the magical properties of rock and stone and precious metals, and he ascribed great powers to flowing rivers of silver. And so knowing, before Fiery Absolution, some in Amadon will cry, “Where is that silver throne with the five legs now? Why hath it been covered and hidden? Why does our king not sit upon it in honor and triumph?”
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY
NAIL
9TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SKY LOCHS, GUL KANA
Shrouded in silence, cloaked in darkness, the Company of Nine peered down from their shadowy perch into the musty underground chamber. The group of ten oghuls loitering below were joined by several more, all heavily armed and armored. The newcomers entered from under the cavern’s main stone archway in a shuffling clatter, dragging a bloody-faced captive—an unlucky trapper wrapped in chains that glinted dully in the chamber’s hearth fire.
The gray-bearded man was wearing a fox-fur hat and a scraggly coat of muskrat. He cried out as four oghuls laid him on the rectangular-shaped knee-high stone altar in the center of the chapel-like vaulted cavern and began stripping off his chains. As the beasts tore at the trapper’s clothes, they let loose a cacophony of vile curses and hoarse shouts that echoed deep off the vast chamber walls. A copper cistern the size of a milk cow hung from three chains directly over the altar. It was full of some dark liquid Nail feared was blood.
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