SanClare Black (The Prince of Sorrows)

by Jenna Waterford

  The man’s hands were hot, and they peeled away the silken robe immediately. Michael caught snatches of thought, but everything in Burk’s mind was confused and confusing, and he didn’t really want to understand. Burk’s lips and hands and body all burned as if the man were fevered, and he never stopped talking, a babble of semi-coherent worship, singing obscene praises to Michael’s body.

  “You should be protected, cherished.” His kisses covered Michael’s shoulders as he rolled the boy over, face-down amongst the pillows.

  Burk’s fingers traced the outline of Michael’s Red Boar tattoo—a bright blood-red against the pale skin of his right shoulder—and a low growl hummed in the man’s throat. He kissed the tattoo gently, carefully, as if by doing so he could erase it and all it meant. His fingers massaged at the leftover bruises from prior patrons, too, his muttering words unintelligible but clearly disapproving.

  His mind roiled as his hands moved to more intimate places, and Michael suppressed a sigh of near-boredom. Worship was tedious, and the men who wanted to believe he had floated down from Vail’s Country were often the most perverted. Vail, I wish he’d finish up and go away.

  “Don’t be afraid, child.” Burk thrust into him with a long, relieved exhalation. He’d done it abruptly and had not been careful. Tears of pain stung Michael’s eyes, and he gasped out a cry. Burk, lost in a reverie, didn’t hear him.

  The man’s words took on a chanting rhythm that matched the movements of his body. “Never fear. I’ll keep you safe. You should be saved from the filth of this world...”

  Like you, you clumsy bastard, Michael thought, angry at the pain and his own reaction to it.

  Oblivious, Burk’s hands smoothed the hair away from Michael’s neck, rubbing in a way that seemed meant to be soothing.

  “Safe forever.” Burk’s words were a hiss in Michael’s ear as his hands encircled the boy’s neck, his fingers tightening over Michael’s throat.

  Michael stiffened, his head jerking up. He felt a crunch and heard a gasp as pain blossomed across the back of his head. The echoing of Burk’s pain through his nose and cheeks brought fresh tears to his eyes. At least I hurt him back.

  The man’s body and hands forced him back down and held him, unyielding. Burk’s voice, sounding suddenly stuffy and odd, nevertheless soothed.

  “Don’t fight it, darling. It’s for the best. You’ll be safe at last.” There was no sense of cruelty from the man nor any pleasure derived from inflicting pain, but Michael knew he was in trouble.

  Let him.

  The thought whispered through his brain as the hands tightened inexorably around his throat. The rhythm of Burk’s body sped up, nearing climax.

  “If you want to survive...”

  Michael struggled, trying to throw the man off of him.

  I do! I want to—

  Burk was unshakeable.

  Oh, Vail! He’s killing me—he’s really killing me!

  Michael scrabbled at the man’s hands with his own, trying to pry even a finger loose from its grip on his throat. Fear drowned out every other sensation except the pain of those hands squeezing the breath and life out of him. He dug his nails into the man’s hands, feeling them tear skin, but Burk’s grip only tightened.

  No! Please, no! Not like this! He couldn’t escape, though fear screamed in every nerve. A black wave washed over him, and he went under into darkness.

  Until, into the darkness, the Voice roared, .:NO!:. And Michael roused, the Voice’s fury filling his entire being—he was furious at Burk, furious at Sirra Avram and Mabbina and all the nannas at JhaPel. He was furious at the Red Boar and Risa and Harly and at Pol for saving his life.

  Most of all, he was furious with himself.

  He drew breath to scream at Burk to leave him alone and realized he could draw breath. Burk was gone.

  Confused and gasping, Michael rolled over and sat up to look around the room for some explanation. Burk lay sprawled unconscious against the far wall with blood trickling from his ears.

  And then Michael did scream, but the sound he produced was a pale rasp followed by a painful coughing fit. He stumbled from the bed, collapsing onto the floor half-tangled in a sheet and still coughing. He tasted blood on the back of his tongue and stars sparkled all around him, the edges of his vision turning black. He caught his breath at last and sat gasping, horrified beyond his ability to even think clearly.

  But he remembered his training. He pounded on the wall in the pattern he’d been taught to use to call for help, and to his amazement, help arrived before he’d even finished the pattern.

  Daren, the Red Boar’s head strong-arm, burst through the door and saw him. He swore and took a quick survey of the room, spotting Burk at once.

  Risa shoved in behind him, darting to Michael’s side. She was barely dressed herself, wrapped in a thin, red silk robe, her hair tumbling around her. On her heels came Irini, another of the senior streeters who looked after and kept the newer ones in line.

  “What happened?” Risa pulled him into her arms and rocked him as if he were a baby.

  Michael glared across the room at where Burk lay, stunned, head lolling, and rasped out an ugly-sounding, “Bastard.”

  Irini smoothed back his hair from his fading-purple face. “Hush, now. Save yer voice.”

  The fingerprints, livid on his throat, told the tale, and the two women began making guesses as to what happened.

  “Did he attack you?” Risa demanded.

  “O’ course he attacked ‘im!” Irini shook her head in furious disapproval, her copper tresses flowing like flame to match her anger. “Look at ‘is throat!”

  Daren knelt beside Burk, examining him for damage. He shot a strange look in Michael’s direction but said nothing and directed his two subordinates, waiting by the door for orders, to drag the man from the room. He sent another of the streeters—also standing at the door and craning her head to see what was going on—to go fetch Harly.

  “Yer too tough for ‘im, though.” Irini still petted Michael’s hair. “Boxed ‘is ears, did ye?”

  Michael didn’t respond. He watched with vicious satisfaction as the men dragged Burk away and almost laughed when the man’s head banged into the doorframe.

  “Bastard,” he repeated, the word scraping against his throat. “Nikking bastard.” It was all he could manage to say, though Risa and Irini kept elaborating on what they thought had happened.

  “I think you’re right, Irini,” Risa said. “He knocked him flat, and good for you, Michael.”

  “Did ye see the blood? Ye must’a hit ‘im that ‘ard!” Irini sounded impressed.

  “Go see that someone fetches a healer, Irini,” Daren ordered, and the woman flicked an irritated glance at the strong-arm but hurried away to obey. But Daren just stood where he was, staring at nothing. He ran a hand over his shaved head, his muscles tensed as if he wanted to fight something.

  He seemed to come to some decision and turned and squatted down beside Risa, though even then he towered over Michael, still huddled in her arms. His dark eyes bored into the boy’s as if trying to read the truth there. “Is that what happened, Michael?” Daren asked, his voice even. “Did you fight him off?”

  Michael swallowed and nearly started choking again. His throat was swollen and painful, and he wanted a drink of water and sleep and for everyone to leave him alone.

  The truth would never do, and Burk had already ruined himself by the Red Boar’s rules. His word would be useless, at least it would be inside the Red Boar’s walls. Michael nodded, meeting Daren’s speculative gaze.

  “He boxed his ears,” Risa agreed. She sniffed back angry tears and gave Michael another squeeze.

  The healer eventually showed up and clucked over Michael’s injuries, cleaning him up and bandaging his fingers which were bruised and the nails torn by the intensity of his struggle. The healer finished by giving Michael a soothing concoction to drink and ordering rest, which Risa had anticipated. She’d directed the maids to
remove all signs of Burk and ready the bed for him.

  Once he was tucked in beneath clean sheets, she even carried Cyra out from the bathing room and plopped the small cat in Michael’s lap.

  Everyone left him alone after much fussing, and he made out Daren’s voice muttering softly in the corridor, ordering one of his men to stand guard.

  Maybe Burk isn’t gone yet. Or maybe he has friends who will finish the job for him. Michael was too exhausted to let this thought take up too much of his attention. He was far too focused on another, more disturbing truth.

  It had been magic. Strong, frightening magic. Michael knew it, and Burk probably knew it, too, and maybe Daren even suspected.

  And if Burk wants to finish what he started, all he’ll need to do is point a finger at me and say, “witch.”

  But this didn’t happen, and when he ventured an oblique question about the possible danger to Risa, she seemed genuinely surprised.

  “I told you, didn’t I? Harly looks out for us. As if someone like Lorel Burk would dare cross the Red Boar! He’d have to be the Duke of Reyahl himself to stand down Harly and Daren.”

  Which was how Michael learned that all he’d been told by Risa and the rest of the Red Boar’s girls was truth and not wishful imaginings. The Red Boar was a force to be reckoned with not just unto itself and the peculiar inner workings of Fensgate but throughout all of the Kingdom of Camarat.

  Harly may have started out his life as the orphaned son of a costermonger, but he’d parlayed a chance encounter with a press gang into a career as the indispensable right-hand man to the most successful privateer in the queen’s fleet.

  After his first triumphant return was met with the news of his little sister’s ignominious death, he’d determined to come back wealthier and more powerful each time.

  The Red Boar had happened the same way, with Harly using his initial, small share, bought during that first, sad homecoming, as a lever to turn the business into his own empire.

  Somehow, Harly had made the Red Boar important enough that it had an indelible impact on all of its members’ social and political associations to the point where being banished from the Red Boar could ruin a man for life, cutting him off from the connections merchants and most highborns needed to succeed.

  Patrons took the establishment’s rules seriously and reinforced even slight disciplinary measures within their own social circles. A man who could not stay within the good graces of the Red Boar would receive no invitations, contract no respectable business, and make no advantageous connections for his family.

  Harly’s suggestion of escape wasn’t something he’d offered to Michael lightly, the boy saw. Harly himself understood what it was like to fight back from less than nothing.

  I’ve been lucky. All this time, I thought I’d landed in the Fires, and I’ve been so lucky. He felt fifteen kinds of a fool for not having taken even the simplest of precautions before accepting Burk’s offer. He’d been playing with death, toying with the romantic idea of ending it all, but when faced with the reality of that desire...

  It’s strange what you learn about yourself when a madman has his hands wrapped around your throat.

  He wouldn’t have thought he’d react with such determination.

  “If you want to survive...”

  “How can the answer still be ‘yes,’ after everything?” he breathed.

  I want to survive...I want to survive this and escape it and leave it all behind and win. Like Harly.

  # # #

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The SanClares, unlike the Voyan royals, had never been especially long-lived. On the contrary, Jarlyth thought. They’ve always seemed particularly talented at getting themselves killed.

  The Blood Emperor Savoni SanClare could count his age in centuries.

  Jarlyth had imagined someone who looked more like Teodor—not old, exactly, but older. It came as a shock to see such a young-looking man seated—Draped—upon the massive imperial throne. It seemed wrong that blood magic could prolong a life so attractively.

  Oh, dear Vail...he looks like Nylan.

  The throne room was vast and stark, without so much as a decorative carving etched into any of its smooth, pure-white granite pillars—the absolute reverse of the same room at Karonsmoor Castle.

  Light poured down in glimmering shafts from the windows lining the walls and radiating out from the center of the distant ceiling. No other seating cluttered the room aside from Savoni’s throne which sat, theatrically, right in the middle of a haloing beam.

  Nor do any other people clutter the room.

  “Lord Denara.” The man nodded an oddly casual greeting considering their surroundings. “I’ve been wanting to meet you. How does it feel to be hailed the most faithful man in all the world?”

  Though he’d had moons to think about this moment, Jarlyth didn’t know what to say. It was treason to be standing there talking to Serathon’s greatest enemy, but if the man could be of any help in finding and rescuing Nylan...

  “May I speak plainly, Your Majesty?” Jarlyth asked.

  “Please do.” The man sat up straighter and turned his full attention on the warder. “I get so little of that here, it’ll make a nice change.”

  “Do you know where Nylan is?”

  “Why should I know that?” the man demanded. “I assure you, I don’t have him.”

  “Majesty, I’m begging you. If you know anything—”

  Savoni moved from his throne with the grace of a cat. He closed the distance between them, coming to stand mere inches from Jarlyth. The emperor stood a hand-span taller than the warder though he was much slimmer, his muscles not made by swordplay. Glints of silver shone in his black hair, hinting at the age his face didn’t show.

  He lifted a hand and trailed his fingers down Jarlyth’s cheek. “You’re a Sensitive, Lord Denara?”

  “Barely.” Jarlyth refused to show any fear, though the glimpses the emperor’s touch gave him of the man’s mind were enough to make him want to run from the room. “Vail gave me a small taste of that gift. Enough to allow me to be a warder.”

  “He is strong, isn’t he?” Savoni let his hand fall away. His eyes glittered with something Jarlyth couldn’t put a name to. Was it desire? Hope? ...Love? “Stronger than any of them?”

  Jarlyth’s chin jutted out in a half-nod. “The Prior declared him the most powerful Sensitive he’d ever seen.”

  Savoni sighed. “He would be, wouldn’t he? The greatest. The strongest. The most beautiful. Vail mocks me.”

  Jarlyth feared that his next words were the most important he’d ever say and that he would fail to ask the right thing. “Will you help me, Majesty? Help me find your son?”

  Savoni’s face showed nothing of his thoughts. “Help you find my destruction? That’s what you’re asking me to do, you realize?”

  Jarlyth shook his head. “No, Majesty. I’m asking you to help me find your son. That’s all. Just a child, all alone and in danger. A child who looks like you and Queen Vedalanna. A child who is in danger only because he is your son.”

  Savoni turned away. “Ah, Veda. I think I did love her, you know? She loved me. It’s hard to know what’s real after all this time.”

  “She’d want you to help me.”

  Savoni whirled back around, smiling. “She would!” he exclaimed. “You’re right! I suppose I owe her that much. She died of me, after all.”

  Jarlyth did not ask the question that now hung in the air between them. He thought Savoni wanted him to ask it, though. He waited for the answer to be spoken regardless.

  Savoni nodded in approval of Jarlyth’s refusal to play this game. “Blood magic is an incurable addiction, and, in the right circumstances, it can be contagious. She died because she loved me—all she had to do to live was give in to the longing in her blood...but she was far stronger than I, and she would not do it.” A long silence followed this revelation, then the emperor added, “Have you looked on the other side, Lord Denara?”
r />   “Other side?” Jarlyth’s forehead furrowed in confusion.

  “Of the Breach, dear boy.”

  Jarlyth froze but his thoughts sped away from him. He’d been a fool not to think of it, but the mercenaries had gone to Worldsend. It had taken years to search all the places Nylan could have been hidden there, and a fruitless search meant nothing but that he might have been moved right before their arrival and moved again after their departure. Worldsend was vast...it had seemed the most likely place. The Breach began there, but to think of anyone passing through it at that most violent point surviving to see the other side.

  “That isn’t possible! If they took him to Worldsend—”

  “Don’t be a fool,” Savoni snapped. “No one knows what happens when someone goes through the Breach. Only the Reinra know how to cross it safely, and it takes them great pains to do it. But that doesn’t mean anyone else who crosses...” and he paused, gesturing vaguely with his right hand. “...less carefully is necessarily dead. Use your head, young man. Where else could he be that would be hidden from you so completely?”

  “But that’s another whole world! How will I find him there?”

  Savoni’s face suddenly looked old, and he shook his head, almost helplessly. “That cannot be my problem. I can give you information. I can give you money. But I cannot help you beyond that. I cannot if I want to protect my son from me.”

  “Majesty—”

  “I have stayed out of it, Lord Denara, because I do not want to hurt him. And I cannot say I’d be able to resist the temptation power such as he possesses would pose. I am a waerlok. Even your poor power calls to me. Your blood...” He let the words trail away and watched as their import reached Jarlyth.

  He took an involuntary step back, the fear he’d been fighting the entire time suddenly rising to the surface. He was dancing with danger, and now he knew it. Savoni did not look dangerous, but he was the most powerful waerlok the world had ever known.