“In the light of the torch, you look like a woman I once knew,” the man across from her said.
Krista did not want to get into any sort of conversation with a stranger. She thought of her training with Black Dugal. Is it all part of the test? Her one weakness was escaping knots and shackles and collars. And her master knew how terribly uncomfortable she was in dungeons. Is it all a test?
“Or perhaps I am just seeing things,” the man’s somber voice sounded in the dark. “There are many things from my past best forgotten.”
The light of the torches flared up in the distance as the trustees and gaoler were again walking down the corridor toward her. As her cell brightened, Krista palmed the slip of paper, so the man across from her could not see her read it.
She knew immediately that the note was from Black Dugal.
It read,
The king is dead. And now our plan can go forth. Aevrett Raijael was not the main target. He was merely a means to an end. You must kill the man in the cell across from you. For he should have been slain years ago. He is privy to ruinous information—information that must never be revealed.
The corridor faded to black again as the trustees and gaoler moved on. Krista wadded the paper up into a tiny ball and swallowed it.
“What is your name?” she asked the man across from her.
“If you really must know”—his voice drifted toward her from the darkness, smooth and subtle—“my name is Borden Bronachell.”
* * *
The triumphant hero of any story should be neither wholly good nor wholly innocent, but should be full of both strength and weakness, righteousness and sin, truth and guilt, for contradictions are most interesting in the human soul.
—THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
GAULT AULBREK
10TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
The woman in the sea-blue brocaded gown and black hooded cape was escorted into the gloomy chamber by Leif Chaparral and four Dayknights. She was utterly highborn and beautiful for her advanced age. Sparkling silver bracelets tinkled brightly against her wrists as she walked. The knights walked her straight past Gault toward the blond boy curled in the fetal position in the cage next to him.
The boy lay in puddles of his own vomit.
“Can we not at least remove him from this horrid smelly place?” she pleaded.
“Jovan was explicit in his orders,” Leif said. “You are only to be allowed a few minutes with your son, Lady Le Graven.” He dipped his head to the woman and backed away. “No more than that, m’lady. We will remain here, just behind you.”
“You may call me, Mona,” the woman said.
“If it please you, m’lady.”
Mona Le Graven’s glance darted toward the other ten guards lining the grubby walls, and then her eyes fell on Gault briefly. She wore a tense, frightened look on her face, tears forming in her eyes. She then looked to the blond boy on the floor. “Lindholf,” she called out.
But the boy did not stir.
He’d been unceremoniously dumped there in the cage next to Gault yesterday. He’d done naught but moan and whimper and cry. He’d vomited several times before falling asleep. Gault’s new dungeon mate was the youth with the misshapen face who had followed Tala Bronachell and Leif’s younger brother, Glade, into the caverns of Purgatory several weeks ago. He recalled that the Dayknights had mounted a search for the youngsters, and had found Tala and Glade. But Gault had never seen the deformed-faced boy emerge from those dank depths.
“Lindholf,” the woman named Mona called out again.
The boy raised his head wearily, corncob-colored hair matted to the side of his face with bits of grit and dirt from the rough stone floor. His pocked and mottled face from neck to forehead glimmered in the torchlight. Burns from childhood most likely, Gault figured. Both of his ears were terribly scarred too.
“Mother.” Lindholf clambered to his feet and stumbled toward the bars of his cage, clutching at them, dark-pupiled eyes large and hopeful. He wore naught but rough-spun prison breeches and a raggedy white shirt covered in vomit. The woman’s hands grasped his and they clung to each other that way, both crying. Then Mona turned her face away from him. “You smell of puke.”
“I got sick, Mother,” the boy whined. “I’m so scared.”
Mona let go his hands and backed away from the cage. A stern look had come over her face. “What have you done?” she demanded. “Why have you done this to us?”
“Done what?” His voice carried such unbearable pain.
“You have brought your family such shame. Your father is beside himself with grief. They say that what you have done is worse than what the Prince of Saint Only did.”
“What, Mother? What do they say I’ve done?”
“They are going to take you to the slave pits, make you cut marble at Riven Rock Quarry. They say they might even hang you.”
“But I haven’t done anything.”
“Haven’t done anything?” Mona repeated, stark incredulity in her voice.
“I don’t understand,” Lindholf moaned.
“The barmaid the Silver Guard found you in sexual congress with confessed to killing Sterling Prentiss.” Mona almost hissed the last part.
“That’s impossible,” Lindholf said. “She had no part in killing Prentiss. Where is she? Is she okay? Glade hasn’t harmed her more?”
“You actually care for this trollop?”
“Mother, please, she is innocent. They must free her.”
“She is chained in an even darker part of this foul dungeon than you.” Mona’s words grew bold. “The barmaid claims you helped her slay Sterling. She told Glade where Sterling’s body could be found. And Glade, Tolz, Alain, and Boppard found him where the harlot said, stuffed behind a tapestry in a forgotten corridor near the western rookery. He was discovered naked. With many terrible wounds. Dead. Murdered.”
“No,” Lindholf cried, reaching for her hands again. She stepped back. “It was Glade,” the boy wept. “He killed Prentiss. He knew where Sterling’s body was. Not stuffed behind some tapestry. Don’t you understand?”
“Stop lying.” Mona looked at him, loathing in her gaze.
“Just ask Tala—”
“Stop!” Mona held up her hand, clenched her eyes shut. “Please. No more lies.” When her eyes snapped open again, even Gault could see there was scant love left in them. She said, “The barmaid also claimed it was you who helped in her attempt to assassinate King Jovan. Said it was you who snuck her into the castle.”
“Mother, I beg of you—”
“Do not call me Mother ever again,” she rasped with such revulsion and vehemence even the Dayknights and Leif Chaparral stepped back.
“No,” the boy cried. “You have to tell them I didn’t do it, Mother.”
“I am not your mother,” she hissed again. “I can see your lies, Lindholf Le Graven. You disgust me. Look at your face. Your ghastly scarred face. You never were my son.”
With those parting words, the woman whirled and stalked out of the dungeon.
Lindholf’s knees folded, his face pressed against the bars as he slid to the floor, hands clutching the cold iron in desperation. “No,” he gasped. “Please, no.” His tearful gaze fell on Leif. “Bring her back, Leif. Please.”
“I think she was quite clear, traitor,” Leif said icily. “She does not wish to speak to her murderous ugly son anymore.”
Lindholf’s pain-drenched sobs filled the chamber.
Leif ignored the boy and turned to Gault, a wicked grin on his face. “Your arena match with Squireck is still some days hence. Fourteen days, is it? Are you prepared?”
Gault shrugged laconically, without expression, then said, “I have a pain in my shoulder. Will you get a doctor down here?”
Leif glared, his devious smile now gone. Gault knew the guards hated inmate complaining, especially about f
rivolous medical conditions. They hated being asked anything. And he knew Leif was of the same disposition.
“I’ve a headache that needs to be addressed,” he said.
“Shut the fuck up,” Leif growled. “If Jovan sentences the boy to Riven Rock Quarry, I will make sure you go there too, Gault Aulbrek. Make no mistake, that fiendish pit full of marble is a far worse place than this. Toiling in that hole will wear you right to the bone. Teach you not to be such a smart-ass.”
“But at least I will be out of this cage.” Gault smiled.
Leif turned and limped away, the four Dayknights following.
* * *
Forts and keeps and castles were built and razed. Alliances were struck and broken. Homage was given and betrayed. Fealty sworn and forsook. Indeed, no clan of the Five Isles has ever forgotten the injustice done to it.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
NAIL
11TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SKY LOCHS, GUL KANA
They floated wordlessly under the oppressive glacier on a warped length of driftwood, their makeshift boat shaped like large wooden spoon. Discovering the piece of water-worn timber drifting past their icy perch had likely saved their lives. Sitting astraddle the hunk of driftwood, Nail was numb from the knees down, both his feet bare, dangling in the frigid river. He guided the raft down the smooth-hewn channel of slow-moving water, using a crooked tree branch as a paddle.
The front end of their boat was scooped in the middle like a spoon, creating a dry pocket just big enough for Val-Draekin. The Vallè sat backward in the hollowed-out section of wood, facing Nail, his broken leg propped up in a splint of cobbled-together wooden sticks and strips of leather. A small pile of wood sat between his legs. Any small bits of driftwood that floated by, Val-Draekin snatched from the water and added to the pile. They used it for burning.
Dark blue walls and a dark blue ceiling encased them in hollow silence. Here and there, some light filtered in from cracks above. A smothering, cloaking death bled from the very ice into Nail’s soul. It was as if the very air might freeze itself solid. The cold gnawed at him so terribly and constantly, drawing his nerves taut like a bowstring, freezing his face into a stiff mask.
Nail figured they had floated under the glacier at least four or five miles—much farther than he’d thought possible. Val-Draekin guessed they were about two or three hundred feet under the surface of the ice. He figured the river emptied itself out into the loch waters at the edge of the glacier some twenty miles distant. Their only hope was to follow the tunnel wherever it led, that or freeze to death inside the glacier.
They’d quickly come to the stark realization that Roguemoore was truly gone. At the discovery of the large hunk of driftwood, they had abandoned their narrow perch, hoping for the best. Through a mostly pitch-black tunnel they had journeyed, no light, just gloom and cold darkness and the mercy of the current. Luckily, there had been no more waterfalls.
Nail never thought he would miss his armor. But he felt naked without it. In the past it had offered warmth of a kind. Now, everywhere his flesh came into contact with the brittle cold of the water, searing pain seeped straight to the marrow of his bones. He missed his sword, too. And he knew they would have frozen to death hours ago if not for Val-Draekin’s white powder. The Vallè would occasionally light some of the driftwood kindling afire, and together they would warm their hands until it burnt down. Nail would lift one leg at a time onto the raft and warm his naked feet as best he could, the Vallè rubbing warmth back into them with his hands. But each time Nail lifted a leg, their makeshift raft would list sideways, so he mostly gritted his teeth and bore the pain of the cold waters. He found himself blowing into his hands every few minutes just to keep them from turning numb. And to add to the misery, he was starving.
“I wonder if Seita is still up there?” Val Draekin was gazing up at the icy roof of the tunnel. The Vallè still wore his fine black leather armor, layers of ring mail about the neckline shining in the light. But the whole ensemble was shredded in most places from their adventures. “Wonder if they’re still alive, Seita, Stefan, and Culpa, or if they fell into the waterfall behind us. Lost like Roguemoore.”
Nail wasn’t sure he could even answer the Vallè, his dart-stung face was so cold. He too looked up at the roof drifting by—a dreamlike landscape of whispering, shadowy veins of broad purples and blues. Dull light bled from the crevasses and cracks, water weeping down in droplets onto his face. He thought of Roguemoore, knowing he should feel some sorrow for the dwarf who had taken him in and made him part of the Brethren of Mia. But he couldn’t even muster up one single feeling of sadness. It was just too cold to think of anything beyond his own survival. The only emotion in his chilled heart was that of betrayal. The fact was, the gruff old dwarf had lied to him about many things, and Nail had never called him out on the lies. And now he never could.
He thought of Stefan Wayland, hoping his friend was still alive and not too horrified by what he must certainly assume he saw: the deaths of Roguemoore, Val-Draekin, and himself. Is Culpa Barra still alive? Is Seita? She certainly seemed the most capable of them all, skilled in many ways, a mystery.
“Who is Seita?” he asked, his face a brittle mask in the cold. His lips hardly moved, making him wonder if the Vallè even heard his question. “Did you know she was such a good fighter?” Pale mist puffed from his mouth with each word.
“Of course,” Val-Draekin answered. “Does her skill surprise you?”
A lot of things had surprised him about his two Vallè companions since the company had set off from Lord’s Point. The relationship between Val-Draekin and Seita had never been clearly defined. The two had scarcely shown the least bit of friendship toward each other. He thought her remembered Seita hinting of a relationship between her sister and Val-Draekin. But not much beyond that was ever mentioned, leastwise that he could recall. After a moment, he said, “I have never seen a girl fight like that.”
“And why is that?” Val-Draekin asked.
Nail wasn’t expecting his statement to be followed by such a casual yet pointed question. “I guess I don’t know why.” He dipped his crooked paddle into the steely gurgle of the river, turning the raft away from a thin tower of ice jutting up in their path. “Girls don’t fight like that in Gallows Haven. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“Only the young men are trained to be warriors in Gallows Haven.” It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact from the Vallè.
“Only the boys seventeen and eighteen are required to train,” Nail said. “Every boy in Gul Kana must put in his two years’ service to the church and Silver Throne. It is law, punishable by death if one refuses or abandons his duty.”
“It is known by all, the women in Gul Kana and Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè never fight,” Val-Draekin said. “Why do you think that is?”
Nail had actually never wondered why. Training a woman to fight was just not part of his world. Never had been. That was partially why he’d been so surprised when the cloaked figure on the black horse on the trail above Gallows Haven had turned out to be a Vallè woman—a Vallè woman who’d looked exactly like Seita. It was why he had been so surprised at Seita’s skills. “Do all Vallè women look alike?” he asked.
“Not to me,” Val-Draekin said.
“But do they all have brilliant blond hair like Seita?” Again he thought of the Vallè woman Shawcroft had murdered. “Do they all know how to fight like Seita?”
“They do not all have blond hair like Seita. And not all can fight like Seita either. But most are taught to fight in some way or another from a very young age, whether it be archery, dirk, rapier, cutlass, sword, or ball-and-chain mace. Whatever they choose, really. Or if they choose not to learn any fighting technique, that is up to them. Nothing is forced upon them. Nothing is denied them. It is the way of the Vallè.”
“It just seems strange to me.”
“As it would,” Val-Draekin said. “You have been taught your whole life that woman are less than men.” Nail felt like he should be somehow insulted by the Vallè’s words, but he said nothing in defense of the accusation. Val-Draekin continued, “All in Gul Kana have been taught this falsehood by their churchmen, bishops, and lords—frail men who cull their opinions from The Way and Truth of Laijon. And you just accept it. Worse, your women just accept it.” He paused a moment. “And that, Nail, seems strange to me.”
In reality, other than at this moment right now, Nail had never even given the notion a second thought. But it did seem strangely unfair, not allowing women to train as warriors. Shawcroft had never been a proponent of the Church of Laijon or The Way and Truth of Laijon. In fact, he mostly mocked any of Nail’s attempts to participate, especially when it came to memorizing the Ember Lighting Prayer. Nail himself had his own issues with the holy book. He recalled Bishop Tolbret not allowing him to practice the Ember Lighting Rites with the others. “It is written for now and forever that a bastard’s place is not within the Church of Laijon, nor will it ever be.” The bishop had quoted that to his face, right from The Way and Truth of Laijon.
“It does seem a shame that the women of Gallows Haven were never trained to fight,” he said. “They could have defended themselves better against the White Prince.”
“Indeed.” The Vallè nodded. “Nearly half of Aeros Raijael’s army is made up of women. How do you think he overpowered those in Adin Wyte and Wyn Darrè? Gul Kana had best learn that lesson, or they will soon be overpowered too.”
Val-Draekin was right. It made Nail even madder at the church and its Way and Truth of Laijon. He was glad he had slapped the holy book from Tolbret’s hand and pissed on it the night of the Mourning Moon Feast—the night before the White Prince had destroyed Gallows Haven and everyone in it.
The Blackest Heart Page 51