The Blackest Heart

by Brian Lee Durfee

  The girl merely glared down at him, brow wrinkling in further annoyance. As long as Godwyn had known Liz Hen Neville, the girl had never been one for gentility of manners, and now that she was hooked on Blood of the Dragon, she was becoming even more pushy and rude. “You still ain’t explained nothin’,” she said.

  Otto sighed, “So I went to the stable, hitched Colin and Poor Boy up to the wagon and parked it just so, blocking my view of Derry layin’ in the dirt, then went back to enjoying my book.”

  “You mean Derry is passed out on the other side of that wagon?” Dokie piped in. He stepped off the porch and into the courtyard, hustling around the wagon. Beer Mug followed. “He’s here!” Dokie did the three-fingered sign of the Laijon Cross over his heart. “He’s snoring.”

  “Bloody Mother Mia.” Liz Hen cuffed Otto in the side of the head with a swift swat of her hand. “You don’t just let folks pass out in the dirt and drag a wagon in front of them so you can enjoy a book.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me! I should know! I worked a tavern before!” She gave Otto another backhanded swat to the side of the head. “You clodpole! May the wraiths take you. I wager you’re not even trained as an ostler either.”

  A look of peevish displeasure came over Otto. “I’ll do what I want around here.”

  “When the sky rains carrots and potatoes, you’ll do what you want.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you.”

  “Only a clodpole would take the time to hitch up a wagon and park it in front of a drunk you didn’t wanna look at rather than just help the drunk inside, you stupid.”

  “I got my own way of sorting things out.”

  Liz Hen smacked him again. Godwyn grabbed her wrist. “Just help Dokie lift Derry into the saloon, would you?” Liz Hen wrenched her hand from his, gave him a cold stare, then clomped down the stairs of the porch.

  Halfway to the wagon she kicked off her boot. “Stupid pebble in my shoe!” She turned over the boot and shook it. Nothing came out. She grunted in disgust throwing the boot aside. Foot now bare, she hopped toward the weapons’ rack and hoisted up her leg, propping it against a squat wooden keg. She began whittling away at her toenails with the boning knife she’d previously used to pick her teeth.

  Godwyn’s gaze roamed past the courtyard’s horse stable toward the ten-mile strip of ocean that separated Saint Only from Lord’s Point, thinking of Leif’s plan to stave off Aeros Raijael’s coming attack. The ebbing tide, for four to six hours each afternoon, was so low one with a quick stride could actually walk to Mont Saint Only. But when the unpredictable tide rose again, it rose brisk and rapid, up to fifteen feet deep in less than half an hour. Many ill-fated travelers had been swept out to sea having misjudged those tides.

  “Useless knife.” Liz Hen gave up trimming her toenails and jammed the knife into the dirt at her feet. She began gathering up a pile of heavy gaoler armor, buckling the stout iron vambraces over her forearms.

  “What you doing?” Dokie asked. “I thought you were gonna help me haul Derry inside.”

  “You heard that Dayknight in the square,” Liz Hen said, fixing the greaves over her legs. “He said even turn keys and gaolers should fight Aeros’ army when they attempt to cross yonder strait.” She unhooked the Sør Sevier sword at her belt, set it aside.

  “You don that armor, Liz Hen, and some Sør Sevier fighter is liable to mistake you for a real knight and run a spear though your gut,” Dokie said.

  Otto added, “Or someone is apt to hang you when they find out you’re but a girl. You oughtn’t be found inside a man’s armor like that.”

  “I’ve reasoned it out.” Liz Hen dropped the cuirass over her shoulders. “Once I’m fully geared up, ain’t nobody gonna mistake me for no girl, specially when I chop my hair off.”

  “But Seita won’t be able to braid it if it’s chopped,” Dokie said.

  A deep welling of sadness filled Liz Hen’s eyes. “Be that as it may, I see no other alternative, Dokie.” Beer Mug sniffed at her armor and barked. “Ain’t no armor here fit for a dog,” she said. “I’m afraid this is one battle you’ll have to sit out, Beer Mug.” The shepherd dog whimpered as she struggled with the straps of the cuirass.

  Godwyn stepped forward and helped the girl fasten the cuirass around her back. Then he set the gaoler helm over her head. It was a close helm with a moveable visor that she pulled down covering her face. She picked up her sword. Though the strain of travel and adventure had shrunk the girl’s heavy limbs and flabby cheeks by some, she still looked like an imposing fighter in the gaoler armor and helm. And with that Sør Sevier sword in hand, she looked tall and broad and deadly as the stoutest of men.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked her.

  “The White Prince destroyed my town and slaughtered my family.” Liz Hen’s voice rang strangely hollow from under the helm. But her determination was evident. She brandished the sword before her, crouching, as if to launch an attack on some unseen foe. “I will not stand around whilst Aeros’ armies again invade my homeland.” She stood straight and flipped the visor away from her face—a face that was now a red mask of rage. “I will kill Aeros Raijael myself if I can!”

  “You’re crazy if you join in the fight.” Dokie looked at her askance. “Such thinking will only get you killed.”

  Godwyn said, “No, Dokie, she is doing just what she ought.” The words seemed to tumble from his mouth of their own volition. “And I will follow her into battle.”

  He was surprised at his own admission. Is the bloodletting causing me to not think clearly . . . ?

  “Then I will fight too.” Dokie headed for one of the piles of dusty armor.

  “You needn’t help, Dokie.” Liz Hen snatched off her helm. “On account of your delicate health, you needn’t fight.”

  “If you fight, then I fight too.” Dokie hefted one of the close helms, studying it, as if he wasn’t so sure of his convictions just yet.

  “Well, bloody rotted angels!” Liz Hen exclaimed. “We shall fight side by side, Dokie—you and me together; Godwyn, too.”

  The shepherd dog barked.

  “And Beer Mug with us.” Dokie’s face brightened.

  “Yes!” Liz Hen nodded vigorously, scooping up the boning knife she had used to pick her teeth and cut her toenails with. Gripping a lock of her own fiery-red hair in hand, she began sawing through it as close to her skull as she could.

  * * *

  Women, be ye seeker, sufferer, or postulant, if thou abhorest life, change it, purify yourself, deliver yourself from your own free will, bridle your passions, and submit with utmost forbearance to discretion, obedience, and the oaths of your Ember Gathering. Submit to the love of Laijon.

  —THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  TALA BRONACHELL

  4TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  AMADON, GUL KANA

  The sleek black cat with moon-shaped eyes stepped hesitantly across the grass of Swensong Courtyard, one tentative foot before the next, drifting silently toward an old stone sculpture of a small girl clutching a jug of water to her chest. The cat immediately grabbed Lawri Le Graven’s attention. Kneeling, hand outstretched, Tala’s cousin beckoned. “Here, spooky cat, closer now.” The cat padded forward, sniffing the girl’s fingers. “See, you needn’t be scared.”

  Lawri looked better in the full light of the courtyard than she had in days. The color of good health infused her cheeks and face, the wrap about the stump of her arm the only clue anything was wrong.

  “Don’t be afraid, spooky cat,” Lawri repeated. The cat pushed itself up against her hand. “I shall name you Spooky,” she said happily. “You’re a sweet boy, and you shall stay in my chamber. I will feed you as many biscuits as you like and feed you little bites of mother’s rhubarb pie. My kittens in Eskander love to get into mother’s rhubarb pie.”

  A soft breeze brushed Tala’s cheek, and with it c
ame the gentle fragrance of the garden’s lush flora. Her gaze wandered over the courtyard’s myriad cobblestone paths and summer flowers of lavender and white. The grounds were rife with sculpture and weather-beaten statues, many of Laijon, some of long-dead grand vicars and heralded knights. They were everywhere, interspersed among the gardens and green bushes.

  Trees heavy with summer leaf lined the ivy-draped stone walls of the yard, gray crenulated battlements rose up beyond that. Swensong Spire at the southern end of the yard stood like an elegant needle piercing the blue skies above. Swensong Courtyard had always been one of Tala’s favorite places, a place of serenity in comparison to the castle’s grim corridors, her preferred place to seek reprieve.

  But of late, it seemed there was no solace found in Amadon anywhere.

  “Will you lift the cat into my lap?” Lawri asked, sitting on one of the garden’s carved stone benches. Tala picked up the cat and set it in her cousin’s lap. The feline purred and curled up, quickly becoming an inklike void against the girl’s billowy white gown, purring in gentle reassurance.

  Tala adjusted her own velvet cape, fastening it at the neckline with a delicate silver brooch, then brushed cat hair off her sleeves.

  “This sweet cat is a bright omen.” Lawri stroked the feline. “Now that I have rededicated myself to Laijon and Denarius, blessings have begun to rain down upon me and my family.”

  “Blessings?” Tala asked, somewhat aghast. “A sweet cat that will sit in your lap hardly makes up for all that has happened to you and your family.”

  “Don’t be so gloomy,” Lawri said. “My Ember Gathering has taught me how to look for the good things in life. Denarius is wise and thoughtful in his teachings.”

  Ember Gathering! Lawri’s had been yesterday. Tala thought back on all the horrid things Seita had said about the Ember Gathering. She thought she had banished those lies from her mind, yet here the lies were, returned to the forefront of her thoughts, gathering again like a lump in her gut.

  “The Ember Gathering has changed me in ways you shall never know, Tala. It has made me see the bright things in this world, not the dark. I am grateful for my blessings, and those of my family.”

  “Blessings?” Tala repeated again, feeling her brow crinkle in annoyance. “Lindholf was hanged in the arena. Or are you talking of his escape? Is that a blessing? Nobody knows where your brother is, or if he even yet lives. No matter, because alive or dead he is a hunted man! What blessings do you speak of, pray tell?”

  Lawri looked up, angry. “The grand vicar promised that the great One and Only will again grant favor upon me and my family. It was promised in my Ember Gathering.”

  “Again with your Ember Gathering?” The phrase almost passed like poison through Tala’s lips. She was sick of hearing about it. “I’ve been told what goes on in those Ember Gatherings, Lawri. I hear they strip you naked and bless your body. That you stand before the grand vicar and archbishops as they cover you in ash, blessing your stomach and loins so that you will bear lots of babies, that they have you promise yourself to a servant of Laijon after death—”

  “Why are you full of such hate?” Lawri asked. “Why say such awful things?”

  “Am I wrong?”

  “I am not at liberty to speak of it.”

  “Because you are afraid they will cut out your heart and bury it in a dung field if they discover you broke your oath and spoke of things you are not supposed—”

  “You have it all wrong,” Lawri growled. “You do not understand how sacred and special it is.”

  Tala reined in her anger. She was more upset with herself, really. She didn’t know why she had just badgered her cousin so heartlessly. It’s Seita! Tala felt nothing but hatred for the Vallè princess. She seeks to divide us.

  “Don’t you get it, Tala?” Lawri continued, petting the cat on her lap rapidly. “The Ember Gathering gets me one step closer to finding a suitable knight or lord for marriage. It is what my family most wants for me. What I most desire.”

  Tala recalled the moment Jovan chopped off Lawri’s arm, the first words Lawri spoke then. What handsome court boy will want me now? Marrying a gallant knight or lord had always been Lawri’s main ambition.

  The cat suddenly squirmed in Lawri’s lap. She struggled to hold on to it with one arm, but the cat dropped to the ground. She reached with both arms to pick it up, then jerked back quickly, a look of clumsy disbelief on her face, realizing her one hand was no longer there. The whole episode made Tala feel guilty and sad.

  Lawri sat a moment, looking down. “Will you carry Spooky to my chamber?” she finally asked. “I wish to keep him.”

  An apple struck the flanks of the cat, exploding over the grass in pulpy chunks. The cat dashed behind the stone sculpture of the girl carrying the water jug.

  Another apple splattered against the statue followed by the loud guffaws of Glade Chaparral and his three Dayknight companions: Sers Tolz, Alain, and Boppard. The four Dayknights came sauntering up the stone path toward Tala and Lawri, black-lacquered armor agleam in the sun, long black swords dangling at their belts.

  With a shout, Glade drew his weapon and broke away from the others, spying the cat slinking through the garden, giving chase. “No!” Lawri screamed.

  Glade swung wildly with his wicked blade, chunks of sod spinning into the air as the cat dodged the blow. The tip of his sword sliced repeatedly into the grass just behind the darting cat. “You’ll kill him!” Lawri ran after Glade. “Leave Spooky alone!”

  The cat skittered under a row of thornbushes, the foliage too thick for Glade to follow. He sheathed his sword, turning to Lawri. “What? Did I just chase your lone prospective husband away?” he laughed. “Deformed as you are, I wager you’ll grow into an old cat lady just nicely.” Tolz, Alain, and Boppard laughed too. At the sound of their mirth, what earlier joy and optimism lit Lawri’s face quickly melted away.

  She whirled and confronted Tala, shouting, “Why does everyone hate me? Why!”

  Then she dashed away, white gown billowing behind her. She ran down the path and disappeared into one of the arched stone doorways leading into the castle.

  “You ass!” Tala stormed toward Glade, slapping him hard across the face. Tolz, Alain, and Boppard laughed hard at that, too. Glade, surprised by the slap, tried to strike her right back, but she blocked his blow and whirled around and stormed off, having no desire to prolong the confrontation with Glade, hating him more than ever now.

  She hated Amadon Castle. She hated everything about it and everyone who lived within it. She wished for nothing more than to escape the only home she had ever known, the prison that kept her daily. . . .

  She thought of her meeting with Hawkwood in the secret ways not long ago. The man had offered to train her in his dark arts. I will make my own way, she’d answered.

  If you change your mind, just return my sword to me.

  And how will I find you?

  The Val-Sadè.

  Tala didn’t know what the Val-Sadè was, but she still had his sword—it was hidden deep within the hearth in her bedchamber. Her every thought was now bent on escaping the castle. And why shouldn’t I? Lawri was mad at her. Lindholf had disappeared. Squireck Van Hester was dead. Jovan was evil. And Jondralyn paid her scant little mind.

  As Tala made her way under the dark archway and into the castle, she wondered if anyone even loved her at all.

  * * *

  Feeble indeed is the conniving of Laijon, Mia, Raijael, and those who deem themselves the Five Warrior Angels. For only Blood of the Dragon can again take up Dragon Claw and join with the Skulls.

  —THE BOOK OF THE BETRAYER

  * * *

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  CRYSTALWOOD

  5TH DAY OF THE FIRE MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON

  WYNIX, WYN DARRÈ

  Krista Aulbrek, bound hand and foot, sat against the sidewall of the sailboat with Borden Bronachell and the dwarf, all three of them gazing through the white morning mist at H
ans Rake. They watched as the Bloodwood stuffed a slip of paper into a tiny copper tube tied to the leg of a black kestrel. The patient bird, perched on the prow of Hans’ small boat, launched itself into the air with a swift flutter. Café Colza barked as the bird disappeared into the fog.

  Krista couldn’t tell north from south in the murk, but she knew the kestrel would fly straight back to Black Dugal.

  Hans looked across the stretch of water separating the two boats and smiled at her. The harrowing dip in the sea with the merfolk seemed to have calmed the Bloodwood. He had lounged against the sidewall of his boat ever since. He’d even stopped digging at the wood around the iron brackets securing the chain to his boat.

  They had been adrift nearly two weeks now. It seemed like a lifetime. The small boat was almost a worse prison than her cell in the dungeons of Rokenwalder. According to the dwarf, they were nearing Wynix along the far southwestern coast of Wyn Darrè. Calm and windless weather had slowed their journey or they would have already arrived. The dwarf had assured Borden that some fellow named Tyus Barra would be awaiting them in Wynix with horses and weapons.

  Krista could feel her body recovering from her myriad injuries. She tried to extend her sleep whenever she could. When she had to relieve herself over the side of the boat, Borden would untie her, then he and the dwarf would graciously look away. They would always tie her back up when she was done. She didn’t feel up to fighting them anyway. Besides, where would she go? And perhaps that is why Hans had given up his fight too.

  Stored under the canvas in their sailboat was a cache of food and about two dozen water skins full of fresh water. The food was mostly jerked stag and dried salmon, a few soft apples and hard onions and turnips. Once a day, Borden would grab the chain connecting the boats, pull Hans’ skiff halfway toward them, and toss the Bloodwood food and a water skin. It seemed they were going to great pains to keep the boy and dog alive.