Under the fringe of the hood, Jondralyn’s face stiffened into a mask of hate. With the scar and eye patch, there was a fierceness to her that was almost captivating. In Tala’s opinion, there was no reason for her sister to hide behind the cowl of the cloak. She was still the most beautiful woman in all Amadon.
Jondralyn slumped back down into her seat, the fight taken out of her too easily this time. Tala had never seen her sister give up so quickly.
But who can blame her? We are all of us lost and alone.
The tip of Tala’s finger was missing, just a sliver of it, eaten away by some dripping silver she’d touched in the secret ways. But the sight of it made her feel alone. So many mysteries. So many lies. She’d taken Hawkwood’s sword, hid it inside the hearth in her bedchamber.
A low drumroll sounded from the orchestra pit underneath the king’s suite. The attention of all was once again drawn to the floor of the arena and the dark rectangular hole there. With the distant grind of gears, the iron platform rose a second time to the sand-covered deck of the arena. Three thick wooden gallows poles shaped like inverted Ls appeared from the hole, growing taller as the platform ascended, a hangman’s noose dangling from ring bolts on the underside of each braced tail of the L.
Three prisoners—Gault Aulbrek, Lindholf Le Graven, and Delia—rose up from the hole too. Each prisoner stood under one of the gallows poles, a wooden stool at their feet, each stool tied to a rope of its own. Gault was still in his Sør Sevier armor, which glinted dull and lusterless. The two others were dressed in naught but dirty prison raiment. Ten Dayknights were lined up behind the three prisoners and the three poles.
Dressed all in black, the cloaked and masked executioner stood directly in front of Lindholf, the centermost prisoner on the platform. The barmaid stood under the pole to Lindholf’s right, the Sør Sevier knight to his left, all three with hands bound behind their backs, RR slave brands burned into their necks.
The crowd was silent. The drumroll swelled.
Tala’s eyes clung to the three waiting nooses. Judging from the height of the stools, and the length of the ropes, she knew what type of execution this would be. A short-drop. No ten-foot drop and quick snap of the neck for any of them. It would be a long, lingering, and painful struggle for breath as they all slowly suffocated. Jovan was truly the cruelest person she knew. Lindholf did not deserve a death like this. Perhaps the other two did. But not Lindholf.
The ten Dayknights stepped off the platform and took up their stations, three in front of the gallows poles, the remaining seven ten paces behind, all facing the gallows poles.
The herald above the king’s suite shouted into the copper tubes, voice booming. “We have all come to witness justice! A justice to be long remembered! You have come to the hanging of the two assassins who murdered the Dayknight captain, Ser Sterling Prentiss, the two assassins who conspired to kill our beloved king, Jovan Bronachell! The two assassins captured by four of our own Silver Guard, including the valiant Glade Chaparral.”
Glade and his three Silver Guard cronies, Tolz, Alain, and Boppard, stepped out from behind the king’s seat and took their bows. Tala wanted to vomit as a smattering of applause sounded, applause that grew in volume, followed by cheering. Only she knew Lindholf did not deserve any of this! And Glade Chaparral can rot in the underworld for his part in all of it.
The applause died and the herald’s voice again boomed. “And you have come to witness the hanging of your enemy, Gault Aulbrek, Knight Archaic of Sør Sevier! For the great One and Only will not be mocked in his own house of slaughter! Laijon’s justice shall be served!”
The crowd was again feverish, their roar of approval staggering. Laijon’s justice indeed! Her brother had perfectly woven Squireck’s death in the arena and Gault’s subsequent hanging into one all-encompassing blanket of truth and fairness and convenience for him. Tala had nurtured a hope that Lindholf would be spared. But there he was, down there in the center of the arena, standing under a gallows pole, frightened and alone. There was scant little justice in any of it. Where is Laijon now? her mind cried. Where is truth and fairness now?
The cheering eventually died down.
“Has Lord Lott Le Graven come to accept his son’s treason?” she heard Jovan ask their aunt Mona.
“My husband has come to accept that Lindholf was never any son of his,” Mona answered. “As have I.”
Anger flared in Tala’s heart. All of Mona’s children were present. Jovan had ordered them all to watch the execution of their brother.
And deep down Tala knew it was all her own fault. Her own failure. Lawri’s arm. Lindholf’s fate at the end of the hangman’s noose. It was all because of her and the game with the Bloodwood. I was so out of my depth! Whatever did I hope to win?
Now all she could do was watch the destruction she had wrought.
The drums of the orchestra rolled as each of the condemned was helped up onto a stool by the three Dayknights positioned in front of them. The masked executioner tightened the nooses around the necks of each of one by one. Soon the low wail of bagpipes joined the drums, and the crowd fell into silence.
The executioner picked up the rope tied to the barmaid’s stool. He took a step back from his work, his masked face turning toward the king’s suite, awaiting the signal from the king. The orchestra’s dawdling melody spread its low, captivating tendrils as all in the arena awaited Jovan’s go-ahead.
Tala’s gaze fell on her cousin. Lindholf. Even from so far away, she could see that his deformed face was frozen in pale terror. Her heart went out to him. He had no idea why he was even down there with a noose around his neck. She’d told Glade some semblance of lies. She had told Lindholf nothing.
The drumroll raced to its zenith and crashed to silence.
And Jovan gave his signal.
The executioner yanked the stool from under Delia. The barmaid dropped naught but a foot, rope snapping taut. Her legs kicked as she thrashed at the end of the swaying rope, face straining and red.
As Delia struggled, the executioner walked to the opposite end of the platform and took hold of the rope hooked to Gault Aulbrek’s stool, his masked face again looking up at the king’s suite, awaiting the signal.
And Jovan gave it.
The Sør Sevier knight dropped, rope snapping tight, gallows creaking as he swung and twisted, Sør Sevier armor glinting shards of flickering light. Gault did not struggle. He merely closed his eyes, as if in comfortable acceptance of his fate.
Gault Aulbrek finally dead! She wanted to cheer the sight, but there was still one person left to hang.
The executioner moved to the middle and grasped the rope attached to Lindholf’s stool, again turning to the king’s suite, awaiting the signal . . .
And Jovan gave it.
Lindholf dropped.
Silence followed.
There was a crack and whoosh of air somewhere above the arena, and a crossbow bolt punched into the executioner’s masked face right between the eyes.
He toppled forward, face slamming into the platform, steel tip of the crossbow bolt jutting bloody and sharp from the back of his cloaked head.
One of the three Dayknights in front rushed to his aid.
Another loud snap and whoosh of air from somewhere above Tala, and a second quarrel slammed into the wooden gallows directly above Lindholf, a thin black cord tied to the haft. There was a gasp from the crowd as every eye followed the thin black line—a line that stretched from the gallows pole to high above the king’s suite.
Tala whirled in time to see what looked like a giant man-sized bat launch itself from the highest crenulated stone balcony above. It flew, its black hooded wings flapping in the wind as it dove straight down toward the center of the arena.
“May the wraiths take us all!” one of the archbishops screamed.
“Blessed Mother Mia!” someone else shouted.
And then Tala realized it wasn’t a bat at all. It’s the Bloodwood!
Her mind
reeled as she watched the hooded assassin sail straight toward Lindholf. Black cloak aswirl, one leather-gloved hand gripping the taut cable, the other grasping a black crossbow. The Bloodwood fired a third quarrel into the Dayknight kneeling over the executioner. The bolt sank into the knight’s back plate armor and dropped him.
The assassin sailed over Tala’s head, sliding down the rope with increasing speed. It was then that she noticed the brilliant white sword with a crescent-moon-shaped hilt strapped to the Bloodwood’s back, partially concealed by the fluttering black cloak. As long as the assassin was tall, the sword was total gleaming majesty, shooting shards of bright light in every direction.
The crowd gasped and shrieked.
The Bloodwood slowed its descent and let go of the line, landing gracefully on the platform in front of Lindholf’s dangling form. The hooded mantle kept the assassin’s face shrouded in shadow. The Bloodwood set the crossbow down on the platform as the remaining nine Dayknights drew their swords and rushed forward.
The Bloodwood clapped, two gloved hands smacking together loudly. And the air around the three gallows poles was a sudden haze of misty white chalk. Then from over his back, the assassin smoothly drew forth the long glittering sword with both hands.
In one sweeping downward arc, the assassin struck the iron platform with the glorious white blade.
Sparks flew.
And the entire platform exploded in a fifty-foot flourish of billowing fire and smoke. The charging Dayknights reeled back. The crowd shrieked and panicked and began scattering for the exits en masse.
The flames licked the sky but a moment, dwindling fast.
And when the smoke finally drifted away, the platform was gone. The Bloodwood, the gallows poles, the three captives, everything gone.
All that remained was a black rectangular hole in the sandy arena floor.
“What in the bloody fiery fuck was that?” Jovan shouted. “Where did they go?” His eyes blazed with righteous anger. “Where did my captives go?”
* * *
Humans, beware the Dragon, the most sly of all deceivers. Has that largest of all Vallè secrets a purpose and a name? It has. But I will reveal that purpose and name only at the end of all things, but only after the demons of the underworld are done meandering where the dark reigns eternal, only when Viper has finally spoken.
—THE ANGEL STONE CODEX
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
LINDHOLF LE GRAVEN
1ST DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
They hung me! Despite the noose being gone for at least a half hour now, Lindholf Le Graven kept gulping for breath, lungs heaving as he stumbled along behind his rescuer. They enslaved me! Hung me! The pain in his neck. Tightness in his throat. He just couldn’t seem to suck in enough air. How am I still alive?
Dark was the underground stone chamber where they finally took rest, lit only by a few scattered torches.
Lindholf, Delia, and Gault had followed the mysterious figure from the catacombs under the arena to this lonely, cold place, hands still bound behind their backs. The cloaked stranger who had led them here gripped a tremendously long white sword in one leather-gloved hand, a black crossbow in the other.
Once they entered the room, the figure set both weapons carefully against the wall, then quickly moved behind Lindholf, a black dagger in hand, slicing through the bonds that bound him.
“Careful!” Lindholf tore both hands from behind his back.
“Such ingratitude,” the cloaked one said. “Launching such needless complaint to the one who’s rescued you.”
Lindholf knew the voice. His back stiffened and his already thumping heart beat faster. It couldn’t be! “Seita?” he asked quizzically.
“Aye.” Seita pocketed the black dagger and pulled back her hood, revealing the sharp, pale face that he was all too familiar with. Her brilliant white hair danced with yellow light under the torches. “A grand rescue, would you not say?”
The rescue had been dramatic. One moment Lindholf had been dangling at the end of a hangman’s noose, rope tearing into his neck, legs kicking. Then all was chaos and fire, the noose cut from his neck. The platform had dropped into the floor of the arena, and the Dayknights in the catacombs were swiftly killed by Seita’s flashing white sword.
And several dozen dark passageways later . . . here they were.
“You saved me,” Lindholf said in a rush, casting a nervous flick of his dark-pupiled eyes toward Delia and Gault. “Saved us all, I mean.”
Gault was just visible in the faint light, hands bound behind his armored back. His bearing was that of a skeptical man long punished by war, eyes deep and cold, biting into the Vallè princess. “Cut my bonds,” he ordered.
“Ser Gault Aulbrek, gladiator of the arena.” Seita dipped her head to him. “An honor to meet one of Aeros Raijael’s renowned Knights Archaic. Fate has kissed you today in ways you cannot even fathom.”
“I only wish to be free.” His voice was gravelly and strained.
“Well.” The Vallè princess shrugged. “I don’t really know you. Other than seeing you in my visions, that is. And therefore . . .” She paused. “I know for a fact I should not trust you.” Her thin lips curled into a sharp little smile. “But your daughter, Krista, we were once the truest of friends, she and I.”
Gault’s eyes narrowed.
“Kill her, Gault.” Delia’s eyes raked into the Vallè princess with fury. “Kill the pointy-eared bitch.” It looked as if the barmaid was about to reach out and strangle Seita herself. “This damnable Vallè tried to slay King Jovan. I saw it with my own eyes. She is the cause of my father’s illness, the cause of every single painful moment of my life.”
“And now I am your savior,” Seita said calmly. “Your part in all this is not yet over, girl, so hush.”
“Fuck you,” Delia shot back.
“Maybe someday,” the Vallè said. Then her demeanor brightened, attention again on Lindholf. “I have many visions. I rode swift and hard to get here in time to save you all. The trouble you’ve caused me, Lindholf Le Graven.”
“Was it Shroud of the Vallè you used to create that fire?” Lindholf asked, feeling himself blush with shame.
“Shroud of the Vallè, yes.” She met his hungry gaze. “I can get more soon, if that is your wish. But you must do all I ask in the coming days, Lindholf.”
“Of course,” he agreed eagerly, eyes darting about. “Where’s Val-Draekin?”
“Dead.” Her answer was frank and quick in the coming.
“Dead?” he repeated, heart crawling up into his throat.
“Aye, lost in a glacier.” She picked up the crossbow. “But we have this, Lindholf, Blackest Heart.” She handed the crossbow to him. He held it warily. It was made of some sort of pitch-black wood and black string, scary-looking and deadly.
He couldn’t help but notice that Gault’s piercing eyes were fixed on the weapon too.
“It seems fitted for some manner of bolts unlike any I’ve ever seen,” the man said.
“It takes Vallè-crafted quarrels,” Seita said. “After all, it is a Vallè weapon.”
She grabbed the white sword next, held it up before Lindholf. “We also have Afflicted Fire. The sword and the crossbow, they are what is most important to us now.”
Lindholf marveled at the sword gleaming in the torchlight. It was as long as the Vallè princess was tall, a bright red ruby set in its pommel. The weapon’s crescent-moon-shaped hilt and cross-guard seemed carved of some odd substance like bone, something unrecognizable. And its sleek blade was fashioned of shiny silver and pulsing, twisting veins of glassy white. The swirling, luminous steel itself seemed somehow alive. It reminded him of the shield he had found in the Rooms of Sorrow, Ethic Shroud.
“That is not all.” The Vallè princess leaned the long sword against the wall and produced a leather satchel from the folds of her cloak. She unstrapped the flap and pulled forth two small o
val stones. They nestled together in her leather-gloved hand; one glowing red, the other so black it seemed to swallow the torchlight. “Angel stones,” she announced.
They were the same shape and size of the white stone Lindholf had found. Delia leaned in for a better look. Gault Aulbrek drifted forward too, staring hard at the remarkable little gems, a latent craving in his gaze.
The red stone sparkled and danced like shimmering fire, smoky waves of inner light glinting back up into the bald man’s haunted eyes.
But to Lindholf, on closer inspection, the black stone, though peculiar in its own way, seemed naught but a small hunk of coal, lusterless and dull.
“Are you ready for your first task?” Seita’s keen eyes pierced into his. He nodded. “Splendid,” she said. “Your first task will be to show me where you and Delia hid Ethic Shroud and the white angel stone.”
His heart lurched in his chest as he shared a quick glance with Delia. “We hid them in a cellar behind the Filthy Horse Saloon.”
“Hidden is good,” she said. “We must be wary of the white stone. For some say a curse may very well lie heavy on it still. You did not touch it, did you?”
“I dared not touch the stone.” He had always kept it within the black silk.
“We must retrieve them with great haste,” Seita said. “For that saloon is the very place the Silver Guard will search for the barmaid first.”
“Then what?” Gault snarled. “We will forever be hunted now.”
Seita met his glance coolly. “I wouldn’t be so sure, Ser Gault, for I know the perfect little island of rock to hide the three of you upon.”
Lindholf’s gaze fell back down to the stones in the Vallè’s hand. “The black one doesn’t seem real.” He felt the cross-shaped scar on the back of his hand begin to burn, same with where the mermaid had raked him. Same with the slave brand on his neck.
As if she could sense his pain, Seita reached up with her free hand and caressed the deformities on the side of his face. “The stones are real enough,” she said.
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