Now why would you think of bone on a night like this? he wondered. It wasn’t a helpful thought.
He listened to his instincts. There was something odd about the mansion. He could not define it, but it tickled his senses and he was used to listening to his hunches. It had kept him alive while many a thief was buried in a deep dungeon or shuffling alone in the poor quarter, handless and begging for scraps.
Get in, get out. Just knock on the door. There were lights on in the house. Someone was awake. Don’t dally.
He walked slowly round to the front of the house, past shuttered windows showing slanting firelight through the slats.
He knocked and the sound echoed in the stillness of the night. He shuddered.
The door opened and a stunningly beautiful woman answered the door.
His caution was forgotten and his heart leapt in his throat.
'My lady, I am undone…I find I am suddenly at a loss for words, and standing on your doorstep like a fool.'
The lady of the house smiled kindly. 'Then perhaps, good Sir, you might tell me what brings you to my home on such an inhospitable night, then words might find their own way hence.'
Roskel tried to compose himself and stop staring. 'I hope I have the right of it…I am looking for a man called Shawford Crale…if I do not have the right of it then I will count the walk a happy mistake and leave this night all the richer.'
'Such fine words. And why would you want my husband?'
Roskel deflated slightly, but only slightly. He had been on the road for a long time and beautiful women were few and far between for a man camping in the woods and frequenting seedy roadside taverns.
'Sadly, I have business with master Crale. If it is no trouble at such a late hour, please could you let him know that Roskel Farinder seeks his assistance in a matter of state…I hope he has had message of me.'
'That he has. He has been expecting you for some months now. I hope the journey was not too arduous.' She stepped aside and motioned for him to come in. 'You will find him in the dining room. I’m sure we can prepare a fit repast for such an important guest. Come in. Welcome.'
'You have a lovely home, my lady.'
'Thank you. Please, allow me to show you into the dining room.'
Roskel was more than happy to follow her. He found his eyes drawn to places he had no right looking at, but she swayed so seductively.
They entered the dining room to find the master of the house seated in deep thought at the end of a long table, large enough for a state banquet.
'Dear husband, the guest we have been expecting. Lord Farinder.'
The man looked up. He was striking in appearance, too. He was broad of shoulder and exuded an air of hidden power. His hair was salt and pepper, but full and his face was youthful enough. Perhaps a man of middle years, but he seemed hale – more than hale – robust.
He beamed as Roskel entered.
'My Lord Farinder. It is a pleasure and an honour. I was informed that you would be visiting me.'
'My thanks, Master Crale. How is it that you are expecting me?'
'I was visited by a past friend of yours in a dream…the King. May he find peace beyond Madal’s Gates.'
Roskel found himself weary, though and almost too tired to discuss such things.
'I will not dally, Master Crale. I must return to my own world, but before I go I have been instructed to pass a certain object into your care…'
'So I am given to believe. But please, your journey must have been long. Will you not take some wine and a bite to eat before you go? My cook is masterful. It will be no trouble.'
Roskel thought about it for just a moment, but not long. Suddenly he was aware of how long it had been since he had eaten. Matters of import could wait, surely?
'In truth, I am hungry.'
Shawford Crale nodded and rang a bell which rested on the table.
Shortly, an old man, bent almost double, came from a door Roskel had not noticed before, and laid a place for the thief. He sat down at the master of the house’s bidding, glad to rest his aching feet.
The old man returned before he could speak to his host further and laid on a fine meal for him, then filled a goblet with some thick red wine with a pungent spiced aroma. The food smelled more than appetising. It smelled finer than any he had ever eaten. The taste was no disappointment. Flavours exploded as he ate. He found himself wolfing down each morsel. There were strong cheeses, dark bread that was bitter but satisfyingly so, thin slices of some meat he could not identify, but that too was delicious.
He burped and covered his mouth with his hand.
'My thanks. Please excuse my rudeness. I do not know what came over me. It is not my custom to eat so heartily without a word to my host.'
'Think nothing of it. Now, to the business of the evening, shall we? Do you have it?'
Roskel nodded and picked his pack up from where it rested on the floor. He opened the drawstrings and pulled out a wrapped package.
'It is a dangerous undertaking, the safe keeping of such an artefact. Are you sure you wish such a burden?'
'I have the means to make it a safe undertaking. I am not without wiles of my own. But what of you? It must have been a burden to carry it so far.'
'To be honest, I forgot I had it for most of the journey. But here,' he said, rising from his chair. 'I give it gladly. I would be rid of it and return to my life. It has been a long road and I am happy for it to end.'
'Many wish for journey’s end. Some find it comes too soon.'
Roskel thought the words wise. He nodded, and placed the package on the table in front of the man, who unwrapped it with deferential care.
The Crown of Kings was suddenly revealed. It glinted magnificently in the red-gold light of the fire in the hearth.
The master of the house seemed transfixed by the sight. It was beautiful, thought Roskel. He felt he should have looked at it more, but part of him knew that even though it had passed to him it was never meant to be his. He was just the caretaker, the steward of Sturma and the crown both.
'It is remarkable. For such a simple piece it exudes power.' Shawford clapped his hands. 'I will keep it well in the event that it is needed again.'
He caught Roskel’s hand and drew him down to his level. 'Now the bargain is complete. And you must be tired. So tired. Why don’t you rest now?'
Roskel could not take his eyes from the powerful gaze. He did feel tired. Very tired. He did not know if he could face the walk back.
'Well, if you have a spare room. I hate to impose…'
'Nonsense. Sleep and we will talk more in the morning. Ellisindre!' he called.
His beautiful wife swept into the room and took Roskel’s hand. Roskel found the familiarity strange, but he didn’t mind.
'I will show you to your room.'
She led him up a winding staircase to the upper floor. 'We must keep quiet. My daughter sleeps down the hall. Here, this is your room.' She pushed open the door and there was a grand double bed. It looked extremely comfortable.
She left with a heart stopping smile.
Roskel thought of her while he undressed, then he put his head on the pillow and everything was forgotten as sleep claimed him.
*
Chapter Forty-One
Dreams came to Roskel that night. He dreamt of blood, unusual for him, for he usually dreamt of women and thievery. Blood dripped from the walls of the room. Blood dripped from his hands. He felt teeth and a sharp yet sweet pain on his chest, his shoulders, his arms and finally his wrists. It was strange, too, to dream of pain and feel it. But he did not wake.
Morning came. Roskel opened his eyes but the sunlight was harsh and he was so tired. He hoped the master of the house would not mind but he needed to sleep. It had been a late night. He needed to sleep.
So tired…so tired…
So he drifted into sleep. The day passed. The moons rose and still Roskel was in the land of slumber.
*
Chapter Forty-T
wo
Darwell was as worried as the outcast Skald. The thief had been gone too long. All day they had waited for the thief to return. At first, it was possible that Roskel had decide to rest at the manor for the night. But as dawn rose, then midday came it was increasingly likely that something was wrong.
Night came, and with it the first of the evening’s drinkers. If the thief had been able to return he would have. Nothing could take this long.
The Drayman worried that Roskel had been captured by the guard that were after him. By the innkeeper’s accounts Roskel had committed a grave sin against the ruler of this city by taking pleasure in the man’s wife. The Drayman could not understand such long running ire, but then this was a strange land. In his own country, a woman was free to choose who she wanted. Nobody owned her. It was unnatural for a man to own a woman, just as it was wrong in his mind for a woman to own a man. Freedom was paramount. But, he reminded himself, there was much about this country he did not understand. Through the music of these people’s words he was learning more every day, but some things he simply did not want to understand. Some concepts were so alien he had been shocked. Like these women that sold their bodies. If love was not given freely it was not love. It dishonoured both the man and the woman. That was a shame he could understand, and yet men and women made a habit of it most nights. He heard them in the back street behind the inn. The music their lovemaking made was tainted and harsh to his ears.
The dark skinned outlander wished he could speak, as he often did, but it was difficult when the man could only communicate in gestures.
Eventually he sighed and sat back, resigned, on his chair. Night had come around again and still there was no sign of his companion. He could speak in words with the fat innkeeper through his song, but the outcast did not trust Sturmen. It had been bred into his bones and his heritage since birth. He sensed that the man was full of goodness…but to sing the song to him, mind to mind?
It was a secret he had to keep. He had no choice but to share it with the thief, for they were bonded in fate. He would share it with no other, though, not until the day he died in his lonely exile.
Exiled from his own land, he was an outcast in this one, too, and the only method of communication that remained for him was denied by his own will. It would not be easy to live in this land. He found he missed the easy manner and the lack of secrets that Roskel provided.
All he had was duty. In his own land, he had failed in that duty. For his shame he had taken his own tongue. He was not worthy to be a bladesinger. And yet someone thought he had worth. The spirit of a king. He had a part to play in life yet. The thief needed him. He had a duty to fulfil yet and would not fail this time.
He needed the thief, he knew in his heart, as much as the warrior in his dreams said that he was needed.
He had no choice. Duty was a hard master. He would have to wander the city and find this Shawford Crale’s manor. Something was amiss or the thief would have returned by now.
The Skald indicated that he was going out, and left the innkeeper to his worries and his business. There were enough people in the bar to keep him busy.
The outcast pulled his hood tighter, and set out into the moonlit streets.
*
Chapter Forty-Three
'Shush, don’t worry,' Ellisindre whispered to Roskel. Her breath next to his ear was divine.
Roskel knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but his hands could not help themselves. It had been such a long time. The feel of her skin, the heady perfume she wore…everything about her was making him a fool.
'No, we mustn’t,' he said, his voice thick with desire despite his words. 'We must not!' he whispered harshly, but her hands were caressing him…it had been such a long time. Her touch was so gentle, so…unreal…
Everything had the cadence of a dream. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. The touch was real, even though to his ears the sounds seemed to be coming as though from under water, trickling into his ears on cool misty breath.
He tried to push her away, but half-heartedly, and with weak hands. He had no strength. It did not seem to matter to the wife of Shawford Crale. While the master slept, the thief was seduced and he was powerless to stop it.
'We mustn’t make a noise,' she said, and nuzzled his neck with her cold lips. She was so cold, but her skin was velvet just the same.
The pleasure was intense. Like nothing he had ever felt. Every time her lips and hands touched him, every time she shifted her weight and he felt her firm, taut body slide along his naked ribs, he was bewitched.
Suddenly her head came from his neck and he saw her lips were the darkest red. Concern slipped into his sleepy mind but she turned her eyes on him and smiled and all worry was again forgotten. It was still there, in his thoughts, but it drifted out of reach and he was so weak. Too weak to think about anything but her lips kissing his throat.
'Silent, my love. Wait for me,' she said breathlessly. He imagined her ardour as desperate as his. Then she rose from the bed and glided toward the door.
He moaned. It was agony when she left him.
Then the door cracked open. He writhed as he was left alone, the sheet twisting about his legs. He needed her. He could wait no longer. Such passion coursed through his body, his blood boiled with the smell of her, lingering in the room.
He rose, unsteadily. Her husband was still asleep. If he could just find her, lead her back to his room. Naked and confused, his neck dripping blood on the floor, he staggered toward the open door. He could not be without her. Her husband be damned.
Roskel pushed the door and headed out into the candlelit hall, bare feet padding on the floor as he crept to find his love.
*
Chapter Forty-Four
The Drayman could feel the wrongness in the song as he laid his hand on the door. It was locked, but Roskel was inside somewhere. He had no doubt. There was no room for doubt or fear. His friend was in peril and something wrong lived here.
He took one step back, then crashed a booted foot into the lock. The door splintered and he rammed it with his shoulder, stumbling into a room. Splendour surrounded him. It was a fine entrance hall. He did not understand these people’s fascination with useless artefacts, but he understood enough to know that these paintings and statuettes that lined the walls were valuable.
Wasting no time he concentrated on every sound, but there were no sounds that he could hear. He drew his long, curved sword and headed to the right, through a wide arch and into a dining room. It was empty, but there was a lingering smell of food…but humming softly, augmenting his senses, he could just make out a hint of something else…bitter sweet decay?
He hummed louder. There was a glamour here. Powerful, immensely powerful. Had he his tongue he could have banished it in moments, but as it was he gained a glimpse, just for a second, of what lay underneath. Beneath the grandeur of the entrance hall and the dining room was the stench of death. The floor was dusty, the walls damp. Cobwebs hung from a ceiling that had never been cleaned. Spiders scurried away from his gaze, then the false vision crashed down on his like a falling cage and truth was trapped without. He turned about him, beauty once more restored.
But he had seen the truth. The vision was beautiful but it was not real. It was a lure, like the red pipers that sang a beguiling song, leading their prey toward them, only to crush them and drink their blood.
He could feel them now. The blood drinkers. This was their lair. He hummed, sending his senses out. But they knew he was there and they were powerful indeed. He sensed power of the ages. They were old, older than him. Their power leaked into the city that was their food. He knew their kind from the music of their movements and their breathing…it was the breath of the dead.
Warily, he took the first stair.
A beautiful woman seemed to glide graceful across the top landing. He looked away from her eyes and held his sword like a talisman before him. He heard the dark dirge of music behind him and turned just in time to swi
ng his sword as a man leapt through the air, flying toward him.
No more thought. Humming all the time, even when breathing in, creating latticework of sounds around his mind that protected him, he swung his blade, itself imbued with power, and sliced the man’s reaching hand from his arm. The man rolled away with a cry of inhuman rage. He dived under the bladesinger’s thrust and into the dining room. No time to purse him.
He turned his gaze back to the woman. She was taking the stairs, her own dangerous glamour rising. He felt his resolve wavering as she descended toward him, but then he saw Roskel stumbling across the landing, blood dripping from his neck, and the glamour was broken.
She saw his resolve and screamed, ear piercing and shrill. Out of tune to the outcast’s ears. He ran toward her, blade raised and tried to slice her head from her body but she dived over the railings and landed gracefully below, cutting them off.
The Drayman ran and took Roskel’s arm, leading him back down the stairs. Blade held before him to ward against the woman’s charms, his song rising in the air against her inhuman cries, he took the steps two at a time.
'Let us leave, abomination. We are not here for you.'
She knew he could not destroy her. But she was hungry, still. Always hungry.
She leapt. His sword took her through the chest. She fell to the ground, then rolled away.
The Drayman burst through the door into the night. And ran straight into a guard. Roskel was still insensible.
The woman, the creature stood before the door, blood covering her gown.
'Lady Crale!' cried the guard. Behind him three more were running along the road.
'Guard! Arrest these men! They have broken into our home and attacked us!'
The Drayman had no choice. It was now or never. His own song rose and he tried to pull Roskel away, but he could not fight the blood drinkers and the guard both, not with Roskel the way he was. All he could do was get away and trust that the guard were safer than the creature outlined in the door. He melted back from the guard’s questing hands and suddenly a cloak of darkness fell upon him.
The Thief King: The Line of Kings Trilogy Book Two Page 13