There were cheers from the throng as the Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin, motioned for the spar to begin. He then stepped aside with a hearty shout, “Edged weapons in play! Spectators watch yourselves!”
In the center of the hall, Squireck spun his sword deftly overhead. Tolz, Alain, and Boppard slipped conical battle helms over their heads. They slowly circled the Prince of Saint Only, shields at the guard, their own swords poised for attack. The crowd was abuzz with excitement now. Boppard lunged at Squireck first, his heavy iron shield no match for the power behind Squireck’s flashing sword. Boppard’s shield was jarred from his hand and clattered to the floor, bent in the middle. His sword was knocked from his hand next, spinning to the ground. Oohs and aahs and claps and cheers burst forth as Alain and Tolz closed in on Squireck next.
Tala, completely uninterested, turned from the action and looked across the table at Lawri. “It’s all so pointless. The battling and dueling. Don’t you think?”
Lawri was popping purple grapes into her mouth one after the next, no longer fussing with her hair, eyes fixed on the combat in the center of the hall. “Ser Tolz and Ser Alain are dashingly cute in their own way,” she said. “For Silver Guards, anyway. But I think Sharla and Jaclyn Chaparral have their eyes set on those two.” Glade’s sisters were standing at the edge of the crowd, watching the duel. The two tall Chaparral girls had become regular faces at the court the last few weeks, at least ever since Glade’s Ember Lighting Rites. Like their brother Leif, both girls were lean and exquisitely pretty. Lord Claybor wanted to see them wed soon. Sharla was well past betrothal age, Jaclyn getting there.
Lawri chomped on the grapes. “Silver Guards are one thing. But I think I should marry a Dayknight like Squireck.” Her face turned suddenly glum. “Except that Lindholf’s crimes now lower my station. Leastways that’s what Father says.”
“Is that all you’re worried about?” Tala asked, irritated with her cousin. “You’re worried that Lindholf has disgraced the Le Graven name and possibly lowered your standing in the court?”
Lawri swallowed another grape. “We all deal with things in our own way. I am saddened by what my brother has done. But what can I do about it?” She picked through the bowl of fruit on the table before her, then gave up. “There are no more grapes.”
“You do realize your brother is in Purgatory,” Tala stated.
Lawri met her gaze. “You know, Tala, I can’t sleep at night mostly.”
Lately, with Lawri, conversations had a tendency to jump all over the place. “Because of Lindholf you cannot sleep?”
“Sure, that . . . well, and other things too. Dreams and such. But I probably shouldn’t talk of it.” Lawri lapsed into an uncomfortable silence, long fingers digging through the fruit bowl again.
Without Lindholf here, Tala was just now realizing how much she relied on his company, how generally more comfortable he made her feel around Lawri.
Her eyes roamed the hall, resting on the raised dais in the center of the southern wall where the grand vicar sat with her brother and Leif Chaparral. Baron Jubal Bruk sat at the table across from Jovan. The baron struggled mightily with his food, using the tips of the two daggers stuck in the stumps of his arms as utensils. Neither Jovan nor the vicar offered any help. For some reason that bothered Tala.
The Way and Truth of Laijon claimed that the grand vicar was without sin, that he communed with the spirit of Laijon in the temple. The holy book claimed that the grand vicar would never lead anyone in the church astray. Yet what Denarius had done to Lawri was a sin most egregious. And that disgusted her.
That thought was followed by one even more horrid: Lawri’s dreams! She looked across the table at her cousin. What was her cousin dreaming about that she dared not speak of? Tala looked straight at her cousin again. “You dreamed I would marry the grand vicar, then later claimed it was naught but nonsense. Naught but silly dreams.”
“Perhaps it will come true,” Lawri said nonchalantly.
“What do you mean?” Her cousin’s answers were most vexing indeed.
“I am starting to have dreams that do come true,” Lawri said. “Like I dreamed Squireck would win in the arena. And it came true. I dreamed that Lindholf would be thrown into a dungeon cage for the remainder of his life. And look what happened. The dream where I am searching the secret ways, searching for something in that red room with the cross-shaped altar. I know I told you it was fading, but that was a lie. It gets worse every night. I fear I may go back there, to the red-hazed room. Myself. Alone.”
A chill settled over Tala. Prentiss’s body has already been found. You needn’t worry about Lawri discovering it there.
She sat up straight as her cousin pulled the sleeve of her yellow dress up. Tala could see the raw scar that ran from her wrist up the underside of her arm. The infection had in fact spread, bloated red and purple and terribly sore-looking.
“I keep dreaming that I’m wearing a gauntlet,” Lawri went on. “A clunky silver hunk of armor that I can’t get rid of. But at least it is a hand, of a sort.”
“Is that why you won’t let Val-Gianni look at your arm?” Tala asked. “Because you dream of a metal hand?”
“No.” Lawri covered her arm, eyes darting about the hall, hoping nobody had seen her injury. “I already told you why. Don’t you ever listen to me?” Her gaze was still roving Sunbird Hall. She flashed a wide grin at a helmetless Dayknight with a handsome face standing at attention near Jovan and the vicar. Then she looked at Tala again. “You should pay attention to the things I tell you, Tala. I just want my voice to be heard.”
“I listen,” Tala said defensively.
“No, you don’t,” Lawri said matter-of-factly.
Glade Chaparral plopped down on the bench between Tala and Lawri, flipping a copper coin up in his hand, catching it, rolling it casually between his fingers, making it dance. “Looks like Squireck made short work of Tolz and Alain.”
Lawri grunted. “I don’t want him sitting by me, Tala.” She glared daggers at Glade. “What he did to Lindholf.” Without another word she stood and took her leave, swiftly moving away through the crowd, yellow skirt awhirl.
“She thinks it’s my fault her brother is in Purgatory,” Glade sneered.
“It is your fault.” Tala was also repulsed by his mere presence.
“Lindholf is in a dungeon because of his own actions.”
“His own actions?” Tala was appalled. “He is there because of your lies.”
Glade winked at her. “You mean because of your lies.”
His words bit deep. Guilt flooded her. She wanted to stand up and punch him in the face right there in front of everyone. Because he’s right. “I hate you,” she snapped.
“Splendid. And I hate you. Makes no difference what you think of me.”
“I’m sure you and those bootlickers you call friends are just swimming in the adulation of having caught Lindholf with the barmaid. If he even was with the barmaid. Everything about you is false, Glade. Including your story about my cousin. And one day I will set this all aright.”
“Sure you will.” The coin twirling in his fingers fell to the table with a tinkle and clank, spinning in place of its own accord like a top. “You’re embroiled in this mess with Lindholf deeper than I ever will be.”
Tala watched the spinning coin wobble to a stop. When she saw the scratch on the face of the coin, her eyes flew up to Glade. He was grinning as he held the coin up before her triumphantly. “It’s merely what the people of Amadon have taken to doing. Don’t blame me.” It was one of the coins minted in Avlonia, bearing Jondralyn’s likeness. And someone had scratched a thin line in its copper surface right through her face. “All in Amadon know of your beautiful sister’s injury.” Glade’s crooked smile formed into a laugh. “I wager all the coins circulating through the city are now similarly marked.” His laugh turned to a goofy little cackle that grated on her nerves.
How could I ever have liked him? “You are evil and vile,�
� she growled. “Worse than a bloodsucking oghul.”
“Bloodsucking oghul?” There was incredulity in his laugh now. “Is that the best you can do?”
“If Borden Bronachell were alive, he’d behead you for defacing that coin.”
“No, he wouldn’t. And I found it already defaced.”
“I knew my father. He would not allow such an insult to be visited upon those whom he loved.” She straightened her back. “He would burn this city to the ground first. He did not suffer fools.”
“He sired you.” Glade shrugged nonchalantly.
Tala stood and walked away from him, wishing she hadn’t invoked the name of her father. It was all heartache down that path. She would ofttimes dream of him. Sketchy, mysterious dreams. Every time, at the first sight of him, she would become stricken with an almost wounded joy. For she always knew she was in a dream. Still, she relished the fantasy. For even in her dreams there was a force to Borden Bronachell’s bearing, a commanding presence that left her feeling safe, and a gentle, comforting smile for her always. No one had ever made her feel more loved than him. Even in her dreams she felt the love. And she knew for a fact that every single thing in her life would have turned out differently had he lived. He did not suffer fools. And he would not have suffered her betrothal to the monster Glade Chaparral.
Tears formed in Tala’s eyes as she drifted aimlessly through the crowd. She was still bitterly angry with her father for going off to war and never coming back.
† † † † †
“I should have listened to you, Tala,” Jondralyn said. Ansel squirmed about on her lap, sneezing uncontrollably, eyes pink and swollen from allergies. When Tala’s younger brother wasn’t fussing with the bucklers of Jondralyn’s silver armor, he was pointing at Jubal Bruk, asking over and over to get closer. He had been fascinated by the limbless baron ever since he had arrived from Lord’s Point in a box.
“I told you, Jovan and Leif, they meant for you to die,” Tala said, sitting across from her sister.
“But I did not,” Jondralyn said.
Every time she was around her sister, Tala couldn’t help but focus on the bandages, couldn’t help but remember the wounds underneath. People were defacing Avlonia coins, scratching lines across her sister’s likeness.
“Your staring is far too obvious.” Jondralyn’s blue eyes narrowed beneath dark brows. “I will be fine, Tala. You needn’t worry over me.” Just visible under the bandages, Jondralyn’s hair was tied back with a thin ribbon of silver. Over her armor, she wore a black cape, fastened with a silver brooch at the neckline. At her side hung a Silver Guard sword. Her helm sat on the table between them. Not that she could have worn it with the bandages anyway.
“Jovan will not kill his own sister,” Jondralyn said. “Not now. He will utilize me and my injuries to rally troops from the breadth of Gul Kana.” Her frosty eyes roved the chamber, falling on Leif Chaparral. “Leif, on the other hand, that one is long bereft of goodness. He would not hesitate to slay even his own kin. Jovan knows the darkness that dwells in Leif. As does Denarius. They will use Leif in whatever schemes they themselves haven’t the stomach for. They will likely use Glade, too, I’m afraid. Who knows what foul schemes they are all working on?”
With her one eye, Jondralyn cast a direct and steady gaze at Tala. “Leif gifted Hawkwood’s two swords to Glade. Yet I have not seen Glade with them as of late. He used to wear them about so proudly. Like trophies. Does he still have them?” Jondralyn did not break her glance. “If so, they do not belong to him.”
Fear clutched at Tala’s soul with a tenacity she could not dispel. What is she hinting at? Her thoughts shifted to her adventure into Purgatory with Glade. How she had tossed Hawkwood’s swords into the underground river. “I’m not privy to every last detail of Glade’s life,” she answered a little too snarkily, regretting it immediately.
“Just wondering.” Jondralyn ruffled Ansel’s hair. “No need to be waspish. I know you and Glade ventured into Purgatory and got lost. Jovan and Leif told me. Did Glade have the swords with him then?”
“Perhaps so.” Tala shrugged, trying to remain cool. “I can’t recall.” So many lies. And each lie leads to another and on and on and on. The fact was, she wanted to tell Jondralyn of the Bloodwood’s game. She wanted to divulge why Lawri had been so sick. How Sterling Prentiss had really died. She wanted to lay bare every rotten detail of her trip into Purgatory with Glade. She wanted to tell her sister that she had stripped the swords from Glade and tossed them into the underground river. She wanted to tell Jondralyn about the stolen map. She was fighting to push the words from her mouth, heaving and pressing, but they would not spill forth. She wanted Jondralyn to get Lindholf out of Purgatory. He was innocent. But there was nothing her sister could do.
“You did go into Purgatory with Glade?” Jondralyn pressed.
“We went to talk with Hawkwood.” Tala’s mind was churning. “It was Leif’s idea. He wanted Glade with him. Me too. And Lindholf.” She was babbling, spitting out more lies. “Leif and Lindholf left, and then Glade and I got lost.” A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. “Jovan promised he was going to keep our misadventure a secret.”
Jondralyn kissed Ansel atop the head. “So did you talk to Hawkwood then?” There was eagerness in her question, as if she sought news of her lover.
Tala hesitated to answer. Do I continue down this trail of lies?
“Leif would not let us see Hawkwood,” she said. “Claimed he was being kept in another part of the dungeon.” As soon as the words passed her lips, she knew Jondralyn could tell she was not being fully honest.
“Like I said, you should not trust Leif,” Jondralyn said with a sigh. “He told me how you used my name to get him to take you down into Purgatory. How you used my name to influence him for Laijon knows what.”
“I’m sorry,” Tala muttered, the guilt of many devious actions and nonactions and her various lies eating at her. And the worst thing is, my sister knows I am a liar. . . .
Jondralyn went on, almost in exasperation. “There has been some darkness clinging to you ever since you made those accusations against Sterling Prentiss, Tala. Something that vexes you, something that I cannot quite place my finger on.”
Tala’s heart sank. She thought of Denarius and Lawri. How Jovan was so beholden to the grand vicar. Leif, too. She recalled Jovan and Leif’s kiss, their secret affair. The Bloodwood’s game and green potions. There were so many secrets she held tight. But the one secret she had divulged to her sister—Jovan and Leif’s plot against her—Jondralyn had ignored. So what was the point in honesty? “Had you died, I would never have forgiven myself,” she muttered, barely audible.
“You mustn’t ever blame yourself,” Jondralyn said, dabbing Ansel’s snotty face with a cloth. “My own brashness and desire to prove myself led to these wounds. That combined with our brother’s stubbornness. He grows more sensitive to every trifling affront tossed his way. It has naught to do with you, Tala. I’d been spoiling for a confrontation with Jovan ever since I’d begun training for the arena.” She actually looked away from Tala’s gaze, ashamed. “Naught but the stupid desires of a stupid girl. And Gault Aulbrek showed me my lack. And swiftly, too.” Her gaze met Tala’s again as she motioned to the bandages covering her face. “Blame me, Tala, if you must. Blame me for all of it. I am the one who has failed the family.”
Something in the way her sister said the word family angered Tala. “Failed our family?” She stood. “What family? As far as blame goes, ’tis neither you nor me should feel guilty, Jondralyn. ’Tis not even Jovan we should blame. It is Father we need blame for all of it. It was Borden Bronachell who left and never came back.”
† † † † †
“Lindholf is innocent,” Tala blurted the statement out as soon as she sat down at the table next to Jovan. Under the king’s table was a soft white rug, and Tala could feel its plushness beneath her nervous, bouncing feet. Her brother just
stared at her wild-eyed, as if she were some gross oghul who had suddenly stumbled into his dinner party. Empty wine goblets were scattered about the table before him, most overturned.
“Glade is the one who killed Sterling Prentiss.” Her next statement was followed by a dead quiet. Jovan glanced to his left at Denarius. The grand vicar in turn looked at the Val Vallè ambassador, Val-Korin. There was a knowing glance between the two. All three turned their attention back to her, neither speaking, dragging the silence out between them. “You are holding the wrong person in Purgatory,” she finished tersely.
“Don’t be absurd,” Jovan said in a slightly unfocused way, drunk.
It was going to take her a moment to build up the courage to say everything she wanted to. To say the truth. She looked around, trying to find something to focus on besides the three men at the table. She glanced up at the row of five Dayknights behind her brother. In their black armor and silver surcoats, they stoically stood at guard, their backs against the velvet-draped wall. The Silver Throne was there as well, almost tucked away in a dark corner of the hall, shrouded in white sheets, its five stout legs and silver seat holding up no king. It had been so shrouded since her father’s death. Yes, things would be much different had King Borden lived. No hidden things. No secret things. No shrouded thrones. Just simplicity and peace. And I wouldn’t have to figure everything out on my own. I wouldn’t have to be brave like this. He would be brave for me. She straightened her posture. She had come to say something and she meant to say it. She would finally tell the truth.
“I was there when Glade killed Prentiss.” She faced Jovan, undaunted. “I witnessed the murder.”
At her pronouncement, Val-Korin calmly reached for his wine goblet without once taking his round eyes off her. He took a long drink. Denarius’ puffy hand reached up to stroke the silver chains and jewels around his neck as he leaned back, chair creaking under the strain of his bulk. Jovan leaned forward, glaring at her through hazy, inebriated eyes, brow furrowed to dark points over his nose, as if he was trying to make sense of what she had just said.
The Blackest Heart Page 54