The Gods of Vice (The Vengeance Trilogy Book 2)

by Devin Madson

  He had been about to walk away, but he stopped and turned back, glaring at me from beneath his bruises. ‘That isn’t an answer,’ he said. ‘Pick a side, my lady. Pick a side and do it soon, before you get yourself killed.’

  Chapter 10

  Kaze rode like the wind for which I had named him.

  South.

  We stopped only to rest, avoiding settlements except when Kaze needed food. Sleep was impossible. I dozed in the saddle when fatigue overtook me, but I could not rest long, sure Malice was hard on our heels.

  South.

  I let my Empathy fly ahead. From the thick forests of Koi we climbed into the foothills of the Kuro Mountains. Streams trickled from the hillside, and when Kaze stopped to drink I would stare out at the empire stretching east to the glistening sea, past Otako territory to Kogahaera and beyond. Standing at the base of the mountains was like sitting at the feet of the gods as they watched over their land. Here the wind never ceased, its endless breath cutting through the humidity of a dying summer.

  On the rare occasions sleep claimed me, I dreamed of dead men. Lines of them stretched into the darkness, the number of souls awaiting judgement as numerous as the trees growing in the shadow of the hills. And even beneath the noontime sun, I would wake cold and shivering.

  South.

  The days passed unnumbered, disappearing beneath Kaze’s feet.

  In all of our travels, Jian had avoided The Valley, and as we entered its northern reaches, I finally understood why. The Laroth estate at Esvar was no place to take Lord Nyraek Laroth’s bastard son when such pains had been taken to prove him dead.

  Esvar.

  I knew it was my destination as soon as I saw the steep mountainsides cut with terraces, and the untamed hills. Darius had gone home.

  Knowing our destination, I could not travel fast enough and we sped through the afternoon, whipped on by the wind. The ghost of another Endymion drew me on. He had played upon these hills, had belonged to the land as I had never belonged anywhere.

  Now I was going home, too.

  The town of Esvar sat nestled into a hillside at the north end of The Valley, its watercolour houses and rambling streets cut by a sparkling stream. This was wild country, full of sharp black crags and dense thickets of bamboo, of steep rocky slopes and twisted trees. The people of The Valley had long ago given up trying to tame it, instead growing their crops upon the mountainside, each slope a glittering tower in green and brown and gold.

  One thousand seven hundred and four souls spread about the fields beneath the beneficent blue sky. And Darius. Not in the town, but close.

  Kaze started down the hill. Whispers came to me on the air like the smells of civilisation, of stagnant paddies and refuse-filled ditches, of shrine incense and smoke.

  Baan hasn’t come in yet. What can be keeping him?

  If we don’t fix the roof soon the storms will wash it into our beds.

  Someone needs to take a whip to those boys.

  By the grace of the gods.

  Kaze walked on, following a worn track in the dry grass. It brought us to the outskirts of the town where we found a boy foraging. He had a load of sticks caught beneath one arm and his head bent into the grass at the base of a pear tree. He must have heard me approach, for he looked up, eyeing me askance until his gaze found Kaze. Awe lit his face.

  ‘Good evening,’ I said.

  ‘E’en, m’lord,’ the boy replied, not glancing up. ‘That’s a fine trampler you have there. He must have cost you a fortune.’

  Undoubtedly the Vice horses belonged to Malice, but whether he had paid for them with Darius’s money or his own, I did not know.

  ‘Not a fortune,’ I answered. ‘Just a friend. I was hoping you could tell me how to find the Laroth estate.’

  His interest, which had so far been held entirely by Kaze, turned toward me. ‘What you want it for?’

  ‘I’m visiting.’

  The expression on his young face turned so horrified I might have announced my intention to light the town on fire. ‘You a ghost?’

  ‘A ghost? No, why? Do I look like a ghost?’

  ‘Not so much, but Mama says only ghosts live there. People say it’s haunted.’

  He seemed enamoured of the idea and might have elaborated had I not asked him where I would find the haunted house.

  The boy jerked his head in the direction of a hill to the west, above which the sun was slowly setting. ‘Up there. Not far. Can’t miss it. Just look f’the tree.’

  Thanking him, I left him to his work, touching Kaze’s neck to set him walking again. He was tired and so was I, but we had come too far to stop now.

  It was an overgrown track that led up the side of the hill, grass sprouting between old stones. Woody shrubs blocked the way and more than once I had to dismount, leaving Kaze to push his way through, blossoms and leaves catching on his mane. There were clumps of wild imperial roses and stands of willoweed, feathergrass and jagged fern. No doubt they had been planted for decoration, but now nests of runners choked the ground like a spider’s web. Sprawling flowers had smothered more than one tree, filling the evening with a scent like jasmine.

  By the time we reached the crest of the hill the sun sat low on the horizon. Clouds cut the stained sky, and there amid overgrown gardens stood the home of my ancestors. Low and sprawling, it covered a plateau caught between steeply sloping hills; an enormous complex encircled by a crumbling wall. A welcome garden sat before the open gates, and like the path it had been left to the decay of time. Questing tree roots had buckled the carriageway, and tall weeds all but hid the garden beds from view. The boy had told me to look for the tree and it was hard to miss. It seemed to rise from the house itself, growing through the roof of some long-neglected room.

  And yet Darius was here, filling the house like a heartbeat. And he was not alone.

  Kaze tossed his head. ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But there must be a stable. You might even have company.’

  Though it was crumbling in places, the wall was easily twice my height, built of dark stone and chunks of black glass. Terracotta tiles ran around the top, each engraved with the eight limbs of a reaching spider. And at the side of the track the Empath Mark had been carved into a large tree. Warning or pride? It was hard to tell.

  Kaze stopped before the open doors, backing with a snort. ‘Don’t worry, nothing’s going to hurt you,’ I said. ‘It’s just a house.’ I dismounted, patting his nose. ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It can’t be that bad.’

  He let me lead him through the doors, stepping down into a paved courtyard. It was large, making up the centre of the whole compound, open to the sky but for a portico that ran around its outer edge. Fine fretwork might once have made patterns from the sun, but now it was barely visible beneath the rampant spread of wisteria, its flowers blooming in white and pink and purple. The smell was strong enough to make me wish I did not need to breathe.

  A channel cut through the courtyard and Kaze stopped to drink, dipping his nose into its sluggish water. ‘Stay here,’ I said, patting his withers. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

  He made no sound, but I heard his thoughts.

  ‘Of course I’ll feed you,’ I said. ‘Have I failed to do so yet?’

  Making no further complaint, he went on drinking and I let the reins fall, knowing he would not wander.

  From behind the house the setting sun glowed like a halo, igniting the terracotta of the roof to a blood red. The house was a manor in the traditional Kisian style and it had surely been a masterpiece in its day, but now rot was slowly claiming it. Paint flaked, the roof was missing tiles, and ornamental window frames stood empty. Only one large circular window remained unbroken, glaring like a dark eye upon my intrusion. From the courtyard other doors led to other buildings, cookhouses and shrines, but each was
as dark and lifeless as the house in front of me.

  I stood hesitant upon the threshold, while above me the moon rose full and silver. It lit the passage beyond the broken door, cracked boards strewn with petals.

  But for my Empathy I might have turned away, sure the house was empty.

  ‘Hello?’ I said. ‘Darius?’

  There was no reply.

  I stepped in, dry air prickling my throat. Darius was here somewhere, I knew, but my Empathy could not guide me through a maze.

  With tentative steps, I made my way along the passage, peering into every room. They all looked the same, owning no sign of life beyond the moss and the scattering of clawed feet. Even my breath seemed to echo, and when I stopped, my footsteps carried on as though the house was trying to lure me deeper.

  Abandoned.

  At the next turning, I stopped in a pool of moonlight. Whispers filled the air. They were barely audible, like the rustling of dry leaves, formless, voiceless. The house was full of ghosts reaching out invisible hands to touch my skin, curious, old, twisted. The wood panelling leered.

  I pushed out my Empathy, searching for Darius again, but I could not feel him. Perhaps the house had wanted me to come, had wanted company, wanted another Laroth to trap forever inside its string of empty rooms and winding passages.

  ‘Darius!’

  No reply. No echo; the sound eaten by the rotting wood. I walked on with quickened steps, trying to shake the fearful thoughts. It was just a house.

  Taking a turn at random, I found pale light spilling from an open doorway and sped forward hoping to find life. Ghosts there were aplenty, but it was just moonlight shining in through dozens of broken windows.

  Abandoned.

  The room was a long gallery, its main wall lined with portraits, each belonging to my family. My blood. My mother might have been an Otako by marriage, but I was a Laroth to the core of my cursed heart.

  Curiosity ensnared me.

  The first portrait had begun to fade, but painted in the old style its minuscule brushstrokes still held a wealth of detail. The artist had depicted a grand magnolia just opening its petals, and beneath it a fine looking man sat astride a pale horse. His name ought to have been at the bottom of the scroll, but it had been torn away leaving a crooked edge. Instead words had been painted straight onto the wall beneath.

  Ma’Li Laroth, the First Count of Esvar.

  The son of a gypsy and a merchant’s daughter.

  He blackmailed the Emperor into bestowing a noble title upon him, all because he caught His Imperial Majesty kissing his own niece.

  I stared at the rough calligraphy and read it again. It said the same thing the second time. A glance along the gallery was enough to see that ink stained the wall beneath each scroll, like the house was laughing at me, spawning its owner’s dark secrets in retribution.

  The next was a portrait of a woman, her bearing proud though her stare was vacuous. In her arms sat an overfed Pekinese bristling with laziness, while two children sat at her feet.

  Lady Seraphine Laroth, Countess of Esvar.

  Her dog Lion and her two children: Yuko and Raef Laroth.

  While all sources claim her to have been a loving wife and devoted mother, this was also said about Lady Barin, who murdered her husband in his sleep.

  Lady Laroth committed the more heinous crime of mothering the child of another man.

  Yuko lacked the Mark and the Sight.

  Seraphine Laroth was nothing but a wanton whore dressed as a lady.

  I walked on. Unknown Laroths passed before my gaze, each a proud boy grown into a proud man flanked by numerous wives. Everyone had their secrets, no one safe from the damaging strokes of the writer’s brush.

  Eventually I came to the fourth Count of Esvar – my grandfather. There was something about the set of his features that reminded me strongly of Malice, but by this time, I was more interested in reading the flourishing characters than looking at the portraits.

  Ellar Laroth, the Fourth Count of Esvar.

  Notable only for his lack of wit, charm, intelligence and bravery.

  This snivelling wreck, who could not call himself a man,

  was the reason for the continuation of the Sight.

  May justice never allow him to rest in his grave.

  Hypnotised, I could not stop. I had to read them, as though by doing so I might solve some great riddle, unlocking the secrets Malice and Darius kept close.

  The next portrait was our grandmother, a beautiful woman full of quiet grace. Her name was missing from the erratic scrawl, only one word painted in its place.

  Bitch.

  My heart leapt into my throat as I stepped to the next portrait. There, looking down at me from the canvas, was the man who had taken me to Brother Jian all those years ago. Nyraek Laroth. He needed no explanation. The Imperial Protector. Lover of Empress Li and father of Darius, of Malice, and of myself, each to a different woman.

  Lord Nyraek Laroth.

  The Sight is strong with him.

  It grows stronger every day.

  May there be an end soon.

  May the darkness come.

  I stared at the wall for a long time. Malice had said our father went mad. Mad enough to wish for death? Or had someone wished death on him?

  Only two portraits remained. Beside Nyraek was a beautiful woman, her features so fine and perfect one could easily see where Darius had inherited his porcelain face.

  Lady Melia Laroth, mother to Esvar’s last heir.

  She had not the Mark, but it took her from this world.

  It saw her bleed to death upon the cursed birth of a child that never wanted to live.

  Avarice had said she died in childbirth. He had said Darius had wanted to live, but his unnamed sister had not. Esvar’s last heir. Had the writer believed Darius would never provide the house with another Laroth?

  At last I turned to the final portrait. A young boy, no more than ten years old. Lord Darius Laroth. He looked younger, thinner, and altogether less potent than the Darius I knew, but there was no mistaking those fine features, or the cold look in his violet eyes.

  Darius Kirei Laroth, the last heir of Esvar.

  Lost his life in the storm of 1359.

  May the Sight die and never rise again.

  From his portrait, the young Darius watched as I read through the words again. They had to be wrong.

  ‘Well, Endymion,’ a voice beside me said. ‘I see you have met the family.’

  I turned, choking on the scream that leapt up my throat. Darius was there, half in the shadows, the silver threads of his fine robe glittering like stars.

  ‘Darius,’ I managed, my heart pounding. ‘You’re here.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ he said. ‘I’m not a ghost. But I did not think to be found so soon. Malice?’

  ‘I left him in Rina. Adversity?’

  ‘Here.’

  There was silence as we both looked at the portrait. The young Darius stared back. ‘I hope you enjoyed the family history,’ he said at last. ‘Shall I leave you with our glorious ancestors?’

  ‘No.’

  His lips split into a smile at the speed with which I answered.

  ‘No,’ I repeated. ‘But who wrote the words?’

  ‘I think you already know the answer to that.’

  ‘You. Or our father.’

  ‘I will pretend you didn’t say that. If you hadn’t noticed, I have not yet gone mad.’ He turned away on the words and strode out into the dark passage. I followed, glad to leave the old faces behind.

  ‘He hated his Empathy,’ I said, keeping up with Darius’s quick step lest he vanish into the shadows.

  ‘Yes. He tried. As you can see it drove him quite insane.�
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  ‘I remember him.’

  ‘You do not remember him.’

  He spat the words, a scowl marring his face. His pace quickened and I skipped to keep up, following in the wake of emotions so thick I could not believe they were his. Darius had once been so closed I had thought him dead. Now there was something new.

  ‘This is my head. Keep out or get out,’ he snapped, turning on me, eyes flashing. ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘I followed you.’

  ‘Followed me? We stopped at no inns, and where we did stop, I gave no name. How can you have followed me all the way from Rina?’

  ‘You know the place?’

  ‘Of course I know the place. Answer my question.’

  I could not meet his eyes. It had been so easy to do, so natural, and yet under his furious gaze, nothing was more monstrous. ‘Since the night at Koi,’ I began, faltering. ‘Since the night at Koi I have been more… attuned to you.’

  Darius stared at me. Then with slow deliberation he said: ‘You can smell me? You can smell me all the way from Rina because I left a piece of myself under your skin?’ His gaze flicked down to my chest. ‘And Malice?’

  ‘North.’

  He kept his eyes on my chest. ‘You’re not marked.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t tell Kimiko you ever were, or that you’re free,’ he said. ‘Do you understand me?’

  ‘Yes, but–’

  ‘No buts, Takehiko–’

  ‘Endymion.’

  Darius’s brows shot up.

  ‘It is my name,’ I said.