She turned her back to him, looking out over the bay. At the moment, she did not want him in her life at all.
“Jovan has ordered Leif Chaparral back to Lord’s Point,” Squireck said. “You are right, he will soon be made Dayknight captain. He is to collect what armies he can in Rivermeade, Savon, Ridliegh, Eskander, Bettles Field, Lokkenfell, Devlin, all places near the King’s Highway. Armies from the farther reaches of Gul Kana are to gather and meet in Lord’s Point too. But I fear they will be too late. Rumor is the armies of Sør Sevier are closing in on Lord’s Point now. I suspect Aeros Raijael will have taken the city before Leif can muster enough forces there.”
Jondralyn couldn’t help but think of her own failure in dealing with Aeros and his army. She had been played for a fool. Naive. The one word that could hurt her. And Squireck had used it against her.
She felt his hand on her shoulder armor. He gently turned her around, his brow furrowed with concern as he seemed to study her face, the bandages there. “I am so sorry,” he said, one trembling hand reaching up to brush the wraps around her cheek with the back of his fingers. She drew away from his touch.
“My pardon.” He dropped his hand away, shifting his Dayknight helm awkwardly under the crook of his other arm, grasping it in strained fingers. “I did not realize how injured you really were until . . .” He trailed off, trying to hide his revulsion, doing a poor job of it.
“. . . until you knocked my bandages off in the Rooms of Sorrow,” she finished for him.
He blinked rapidly, then swallowed hard. “You were once so fair to look upon,” he said, tenderness in his voice. Then he winced visibly, knowing that what he had just said was the exact wrong thing. “Wi-will it heal okay?” he stammered.
She remained quiet, trying to read his intent. For so many reasons, everything about this conversation was horrid and awkward and exactly why she had avoided Squireck to begin with.
The truth was, she just didn’t have the patience for him anymore.
Callously she brushed past him and strode down the staircase and back down into Sunbird Hall.
† † † † †
Once in the privacy of her own bedchamber, Jondralyn shed her Silver Guard armor and let it clank unceremoniously to the floor in a heap. She unhooked her sword belt and dropped it atop the pile too. She couldn’t stop thinking about something Squireck had said. You were once so fair to look upon.
She sat on the settee, slouching, head in her hands, her one good eye focusing on the maroon rug, her fingers clenching at the bandages covering her face. Once so fair to look upon, and I have never been intimate with a man.
She instantly thought of Hawkwood. The Way and Truth of Laijon demands the virginity of a princess until the night of her marriage. Nobody understood who she was. It was apparent when all they ever asked was if she would heal again and look as beautiful as she once had. And would any man even have me, as damaged as I now am?
Do they not know who I am on the inside? What strength and resolve is in me? The intellect I’ve cultivated? She wondered if anyone had ever seen beyond her face. Beyond her body. Despite her best efforts, all she was known for was beauty. As if that was the only use I ever was to the realm. An image on a coin. And even that image was being mocked now. She had seen the scratch over her face on the coppers some in Sunbird Hall had been carrying tonight. It wasn’t the first time she had seen such a marred coin. The burden of her beauty was never more noticeable than it was now—now that it was gone.
She took scant comfort in her own chamber anymore. The simple pastel colors of the walls and columns and arched ceiling felt more a lonely prison than anything else. She looked around her room and cursed herself for her weakness. She had finally allowed doubt to creep in. And there was no help from anyone. Roguemoore was gone. Culpa Barra too. Hawkwood was in hiding. She wondered where Val-Draekin was. Had he found the dwarf and delivered her message? Was the search for Blackest Heart and Afflicted Fire underway? She recalled what Hawkwood had told her of Forgetting Moon, that the Gallows Haven boy, Nail, had lost it to Aeros Raijael.
Then she felt it. Something isn’t right!
Like an icy knife tip snaking up her spine, the realization that someone else was in her bedchamber shuddered over her entire being.
Some dark shade was standing directly behind her. She could feel it.
And here she was, unprepared, in naught but her sweat-stained leather breeches and thin undershirt. Her armor was piled on the floor at her feet, her sword, too.
She lurched from the settee, whirled to face the interloper.
Relief instantly flooded her entire body. It was Hawkwood. He stood in the center of the room in a black cloak, hood thrown back, dark hair a tumbling wave around his shoulders, eyes devouring her with their steady gaze. Faint red scars crossed his own features from where Squireck had run a dagger over his face in the Rooms of Sorrow. He wore the two cutlasslike swords again, both strapped to his back.
She hurried to him and he folded her into his strong arms. They clung to each other for what seemed a short and sweet eternity. “How did you get in here?” she asked when they finally broke their tender clutch.
“Bookcase, same as before,” he said, a sly smirk hiding behind his unremitting stare. “I’ve been waiting some time.”
“You could’ve been discovered by one of the Silver Guards. Who knows how often they snoop around in here? Who knows what spying the Silver Guards do for Jovan?”
He raised one brow. “You’re one of the Silver Guards.”
She laughed nervously. “What were you thinking, coming here? It was dangerous enough when you and Squireck did it the first time.”
“I am not thinking at all.”
It was a tender admission on his part, unexpected and exciting. Guilt flooded her then. “It is all my fault,” she said.
“What is your fault?”
“Ethic Shroud.” She looked up at the mahogany bookshelf. “On the top shelf, third book from the left, there’s a small panel behind it. I hid your map there. What if it was discovered? What if it’s my fault the altar was empty?” She started toward the shelf.
“Forget it.” He seized her arm in a tight grip. “It is not your fault, Jondralyn.”
“It’s not that simple.” She couldn’t even meet his eyes. “I have failed in so many ways.”
Hawkwood removed his swords, placing them on her settee. Then he shed his cloak, draping it over the swords. “Do not blame yourself.” He wore a simple pair of black leather pants and a soft black silken shirt. He took her chin tenderly in his hand, pulled her own gaze up to his. “It is none of our faults. I took a risk creating the map. You took a risk hiding it here. It is what it is.”
But to her, it seemed like such a colossal mistake. Panic and despair washed over her. “Whoever found the map has the angel stone and Ethic Shroud.”
“We will find them again. Simple as that. The shield and the stone.”
Yet his confidence was no comfort; it only emphasized the gulf of her own uncertainty, her own lack of confidence.
“Keep fighting for what you believe in, Jon,” he continued. “It is your will to fight and do what is right that I so adore. It was those honorable traits that I saw in you that changed me, made me a better person.”
“But it’s so hard to continue to fight against such odds.”
“Then we will strengthen how you fight.” His eyes cut into hers, full of empathy, but also full of determination. “I’ve no Sacrament of Souls for us to hone our craft, but I can train you in my own way.”
“What do you mean?”
“It is time I took up the trade again. It is what I was meant to do. I am the Assassin, after all. And I shall make you my apprentice, Jon. You can accomplish much more hidden in the shadows than in the center of a gladiator arena.”
He’d already taught her sword craft. But now he was talking of assassination and making her his partner. He was standing so close to her now, smel
ling of cloves and frankincense and leather. The smoldering heat of his eyes burned through her. She could see the pulse beating in his neck. What are you thinking, Hawkwood?
Both his hands gripped her by the shoulders. “I did not sneak in here tonight to talk of lost maps and angel stones, nor even to talk of your training.”
She could feel how flimsy her sweat-stained shirt was under his fingers. She could feel herself flushing as he drew her close, pressing his body to hers, scant little fabric between them.
“I’m a mess.” She exhaled the words, so easily disarmed by him, entire body knotted with nerves. “Unwashed from the armor. I am embarrassed.”
“You needn’t be,” he said, one hand at the small of her back, his other reaching up to stroke the side of her cheek, brushing the doubt from her lips with a gentle swipe of his finger. She let her face melt into his touch, and what few reservations were left floating in her mind died soft little deaths one by one.
He took her hand in his, brought it up to his own face. “Squireck did not cut me too deep.” He placed her fingers over his own faint wounds. “Both of us with our own injuries.”
She traced the raw scars on his face with trembling fingers, knowing that once healed they would leave their mark. She looked into his eyes. Despite her own uncertainty, there was a comfort there in what she saw, as if they both just knew each other always, and this would be the rest of their lives.
Hawkwood leaned in. “Angel stones, magic talismans, they all mean nothing to me, Jon. It is thoughts of you that consume my mind. It is you who I have searched my entire life for. I will not lose you.”
“But my face.” She so desperately wanted to believe him. “My bandages. I am so ashamed.”
“It is your touch that I desire,” he whispered. “Your voice. The words that you speak. That is who you are.”
Her vision slipped out of focus then, and she swayed on her feet, all restraint gone.
His lips met hers, light as a warm breeze. His hand caressed her hair, her neck, her breast. “I want to kiss every inch of you,” he said, and they folded to the floor in each other’s arms.
Limbs tangled together, atop her soft maroon rug, she gave herself fully to him.
* * *
With Dragon Claw, one can slash. With rivers of silver and scorch, one can slay. But only with Blood of the Dragon can one command the beasts of the underworld. For the last of the fiery beasts was slain in that forest of black Bloodwood trees.
—THE ANGEL STONE CODEX
* * *
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
BISHOP HUGH GODWYN
11TH DAY OF THE ANGEL MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
SKY LOCHS, GUL KANA
Aferocious wind ripped through the trees surrounding the lonesome cabin where they had taken shelter. Branches lashed savagely outside, grating against the stacked stone walls and tattered pine shingles of the rickety one-room structure. They had stumbled upon the abandoned cabin in the pitch darkness of the night, its flimsy wood door rattling against the coming storm.
It had been a day and a half since they had left the rest of the company on the glacier. They had made good time, heading west through the mountains toward Stanclyffe, Godwyn leading one of the dun-colored mules by the reins, Dokie strapped to its back. Liz Hen rode the other pack mule, Sør Sevier sword at her hip. The first night they had slept under the stars, a brisk breeze blowing. But tonight was bitter cold and Godwyn considered them fortunate to find this refuge, shabby as it was.
The weathered stone floor of the cabin had been crusted with frost. But Liz Hen quickly got a small blaze going in the fireplace set into the far wall, and soon the scent of burning spruce floated in the air.
Earlier, Godwyn had guided both mules inside the cabin, the banging door eventually latched tight. It made for a crowded place. But the mules needed shelter too. Together he and Liz Hen had untied Dokie’s litter and set the unconscious boy on the floor near the fire, Godwyn pouring some of the healing draught between his relaxed, dry lips.
Liz Hen shed her cloak and leaned her sword against the hearth. Godwyn leaned his own Dayknight blade against the wall near the old wooden table, a rough stone wall crudely chinked with mud. And in the feeble glow of the fire, they settled onto the two old wooden stools at the old wooden table and ate a sparse dinner of hard jerky and dried salmon. Aside from the two stools and table, the cabin had two rotted cots thrown in one corner and an empty shelf above the hearth.
To pass the time, Liz Hen opened Dokie’s satchel and began reviewing the drawings he’d made of the many standing stones the company had passed by early in the journey. “Naught but symbols and stones,” she uttered. “Squares. Crosses. Crescent moons. Shooting stars.”
“He was certainly taken with them.” Godwyn nodded, taking one of the parchments from her hand, overcome with sadness as he studied the crude artwork. The boy was fighting off the poison as best he could, but Godwyn didn’t hold out much hope.
“Do you think Beer Mug is dead?” Liz Hen asked, eyes a-squint in the dim light. “Do you think he was sicker than Dokie, stuck with so many darts as he was?” She had been asking the same two questions all day. “He ran away across the ice. But I think I seen him slow down at the end, like he was tuckered out.” Deep pain lined her face. “Do you think those oghuls found Beer Mug and killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Godwyn admitted. “But what I do know, that dog was a hardy and brave fellow, scrambling under that crushing roof and saving Dokie like he did. Wouldn’t surprise me none if that dog were still out there searching for us now.” He leaned back on the stool, stretching, wincing in pain from his own injuries. That he’d survived falling into the pit of sharpened spikes was nothing short of luck. And landing atop an oghul, no less! They were all lucky to have come out of the mines alive.
“Do you think Dokie will live?” Liz Hen’s gaze was again on the boy on the litter at their feet, her hand gripping one of his sketches. “If the needles were poison, why didn’t they kill him immediately?”
“There are many different types of poison,” he answered. “Oghul-made poisons. Vallè-made poisons. The Bloodwood assassins deploy poisons of all types, most for the purposes of incapacitating their foe for a slow torture later. Who knows what type of ancient poison was on those darts that struck Dokie and Beer Mug? Nail seemed to be recovering fine from the few that struck his face. So there is hope for Dokie. But who knows why evil people create evil things?”
“It is an evil world.” The girl stared at Dokie, tenderness in her look. “He’s so sick and swollen up. How far to Stanclyffe?”
“Three, maybe four more days,” he answered, always patient with her repetitive inquiries, knowing she was only worried for her young friend. “That’s if this storm blows over quickly and our path remains clear.”
“Will they have the medicine he needs in Stanclyffe?”
If we can get him there in time, yes! He thought of the oghul street vendor in Stanclyffe—the gruff beast with the red teardrop tattoo at the corner of his eye, the beast who kept the bloodletter woman as a pet. He feared what dread medicines Dokie might need. And he hated the thought of getting the boy addicted to what draughts that he knew would surely cure him. But there is no choice. That the oghul would have such medicines was not a question. And what price will the oghul ask? The tattoo under his eye announced to anyone who knew what to look for just what type of foul alchemy he bartered in. “Yes.” He met Liz Hen’s eyes reassuringly, nodding. “I do believe they will have the medicine we need in Stanclyffe. At least some.”
She brightened. “I’m for traveling day and night to get Dokie there safe then.”
“I agree, but for the storm. We cannot be caught out in it. When the weather clears, we shall make haste.”
“I don’t mind traveling through storms. I’ve done it plenty before.”
“I know,” he acknowledged.
Liz Hen was a brave one, loyal to Dokie, Stefan, and Beer Mug for sure. He also
knew she could be stubborn and ofttimes cruel and unreasonable, especially around Nail. At the same time, the moment someone showed Liz Hen any kindness, she became loyal to a fault. The instant Seita had helped her fight off the oghuls near the creek, the girl’s demeanor had done a complete reversal. And after Seita had braided her hair, Liz Hen had practically hero-worshipped the Vallè maiden.
“What do you make of this drawing?” Liz Hen said, sliding a parchment across the table toward him. “Dokie mostly just drew symbols from the standing stones. But look here. He’s drawn five figures. Each with a weapon like the five Warrior Angels.”
It was a simple sketch, five figures like she claimed—stick figures, really—each with a weapon: ax, sword, war helm, crossbow, and shield. The picture reminded him of some lost memory hovering just at the corner of his mind. Unable to recall, he scooted the parchment back at her. “He must have been thinking of the Five Warrior Angels when he drew it is all.”
“But look.” The girl pointed, the drawing still between them. “This figure with the crossbow is clearly me, and the person with the shield is clearly Dokie. But who are the other three?”
“How can you tell?” He leaned in and took another look.
“See.” She tapped her finger on the drawing pointedly. “This figure, the second from the right with the crossbow. It’s fat and large like me and has girl hair. And the one on the far right with the shield is teeny like Dokie. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Perhaps.” He met her gaze. “People ofttimes put themselves and their friends into their artwork.”
“It’s weird.” She held the drawing up into better light. “Looks like he drew a giant glove on my hand holding the crossbow.” Her eyes tightened. “Or maybe it is a gauntlet. Or maybe he’s just a shitty drawer. But the figure with the sword also has girl hair. The one with the ax could be Nail. Dokie did see Nail carry that ax anyway. Wonder who the other two are, though?” She looked back up at Godwyn. “The whole drawing feels like an ill omen of sorts, don’t you think?”
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