by K. C. May
“Listen, we got to get goin’,” White Shirt said. “Good seein’ you, Gavin.”
Gavin shook hands with the brothers and bid them a distracted good-bye. When they were gone, he drew his dagger and started scratching a vertical line into the tabletop. Edan Dawnpiper as king. Hell yeh. He took another drink, mentally toasting the notion.
Someone approached his table and stopped. “Begging your pardon, but I need your help.”
Chapter 2
Brodas Ravenkind bent down to the scrawny, ill-kept child. “You must be Dwaeth,” he said, forcing a smile.
The boy nodded but did not open the door any farther.
“My name’s Brodas. I’m a friend of your mother’s. I heard she was ill and came to offer my assistance.”
Dwaeth cast a quick glance into the interior of the manor behind him. “Are you a healer?” he asked.
“I am at that. May I see her?”
The boy hesitated, biting his lip. “The others couldn’t help her.” His small voice trembled, and his lip quivered.
“I can, Dwaeth,” Brodas said. “I am a very good healer. I can help your mother.” It was no lie, but he preferred to help himself instead.
The young boy opened the door and stepped back.
“Good boy,” Brodas said, running a gentle hand over the soft blond hair as he entered. He closed the door behind him.
The high ceiling of the great hall gave the manor an open, airy feel. Through beveled glass windows set high on the walls, sunlight cast diminutive rainbows on the white marble floors. A thin layer of dust covered nearly everything. He glanced to his right into a room with a harpsichord centered on a small rug. On the left through the anteroom, was a greatroom with a wide, deep fireplace and upholstered furniture atop a vast rug stretching wall to wall. Ahead, a wooden staircase reached up to the second floor. To the left of the staircase dried food and shards of broken porcelain marked a path down the hall. This young boy had been caring for his ailing mother for some time. Brodas could only imagine the mess he’d find in the kitchen and dared not wonder what had been done with the chamber pots.
“Where is she?” he asked. “We’ve no time to waste.”
Dwaeth led the way up the wooden staircase. A stair halfway up creaked softly when Dwaeth stepped on it and groaned under Brodas’s weight. Brodas followed the boy along a running carpet down the hall past several bedroom doors. He counted six bedrooms upstairs, and imagined there might be one or two servants’ rooms downstairs.
Dwaeth paused in front of a closed door at the end of the corridor. “I better go ask first.”
“That’s fine,” Brodas said. He put on a practiced smile. “Go on, I’ll wait here.”
The boy slipped into the room, shutting the door behind him.
Brodas listened at the door. He heard two voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
From his research, he knew the boy’s mother had been widowed. Despite her extravagant home, she’d lost most of her wealth and employed no servants. Merchants in the market district recognized her surname, but said they had never met her. Her neighbors didn’t know much about her. Even while her husband had been alive, they said she stayed at home, secluded, while he attended to his business and family matters.
She was perfect.
Dwaeth opened the door and beckoned him in.
The smell of vomit mixed with urine assaulted him, and he resisted the urge to cup a hand over his nose. She lay in the darkened room sprawled across a bed covered with soiled, rumpled bedclothes. Dirty dishes and glasses littered the table beside the bed, as well as the floor surrounding it. A painting hung crookedly on the wall above the bed. Brodas absently straightened it.
“My dear,” he said, sitting on the edge of the bed. Brodas pushed some of the dishes aside with his foot. “You don’t look well at all.” He put on a deep frown and cocked his head. “I’ve come to ease your suffering. Worry no more.” He said to the boy standing beside him, “Run and fetch me a glass of water, will you?”
Dwaeth glanced at his mother, then nodded and left.
The dark circles beneath the woman’s blue eyes gave them a sunken look. Her long brown hair was a rat’s nest. “I don’t...” she began. Her voice was hoarse, raspy, her lips dry. She hacked a few times and fell silent.
Brodas withdrew a gemstone from a pocket in his cloak and kept it hidden in his fist. “You do remember me, don’t you?” he asked. He formed the words Sola memor with his lips, but did not speak them. The stone cracked, and he let the pieces fall to the floor.
Her brow wrinkled. “I... think I do.”
He removed another gem from his pocket. “That’s right. We’ve known each other a long time.” Sola familula, he mouthed. She couldn’t see the small stone split apart in his hand. She did not need to.
“Yes,” she said. “I remember now. You’re–”
“Brodas Ravenkind. Your very good friend. We were in love, remember? We are in love.”
She nodded slowly as the crease in her brow relaxed. Her eyes welled with tears. “Where have you been?” she whispered.
Brodas smiled and took her hand. “I’ve come to fulfill my promise. Our promise. We were betrothed. I just had some business to take care of first. Now I will take care of you.”
The woman wept, reaching for him. He took her into his arms and held her, stroking her hair, smiling. He’d brought along six gemstones to focus his spells, in case she had the strength to resist.
“Shhhhh!” he said. “It’s all right now. You must sleep. I will take care of Dwaeth.”
“Sleep, yes,” she said. “I’ve been so tired.”
The door opened, and Dwaeth returned with the glass of water. He gave it to Brodas.
Brodas produced a small vial of purplish liquid, which swirled endlessly within the container. He poured it into the water and handed it to her. “Drink now, and you’ll start to feel better very soon.”
“What’s that?” Dwaeth asked.
“This is a powerful healing potion. It will help your mother to get better. We must leave her now so that she can sleep and heal.”
The boy nodded. A tiny smile lifted his lips.
“Run along then. I’ll be right behind you.”
When Dwaeth was gone, Brodas leaned forward and kissed her burning forehead. After handing him the empty glass, she settled back against the pillows. He brought the blanket up to her chin. “I’ve just one thing I need you to do before I let you sleep.” He drew a scroll from the pocket in his cloak and unrolled it. “Just sign your name here so that I can take care of your affairs while you rest. The lordover has been demanding his tax payments, but I don’t want you to worry about any of that. You need all your strength to get well.”
She nodded. Her eyelids hung low over her eyes. He dabbed the tip of his quill into a small inkpot and put it into her hand. She would begin to lose control of her muscles very soon. “Right here,” he urged, placing her hand on the parchment. She signed her name in a shaky script.
Ah, splendid, Brodas thought, fanning the ink dry. He now owned this quaint manor. He stood, went to the door and reached for the handle, then paused and turned around. She looked so peaceful there. Helpless. He returned to her bedside.
Bending over, he whispered into her ear, “Your death will be slow but painless.” Her eyelids flew open. A look of terror contorted her face. “You’ll soon lose control of your mouth and tongue, your muscles, your bowels and bladder. Then your lungs will fail to inflate, and you’ll suffocate. That is, if you don’t drown in your own vomit first. But worry not about your son. I have a friend who’s quite fond of little boys.” He gave her a wink.
She opened her mouth as if to scream, but only a pitiful squeak came out.
Brodas smiled as he left.
When the manservant cleared his throat, Brodas looked up from his writing. “I’ve brought you some tea, my lord.”
“Good,” Brodas replied. “Now find Warrick and send him in.” He signed
his name with a flourish and set the parchment aside to give the ink time to dry.
While Brodas arranged the books on the shelves of his new library, aligning the spines along a straight edge, he hummed a tune. The acquisition of his new residence had gone smoothly and positioned him well to begin the next phase of his plan: to capture the rune solver and seize the throne. For that, he needed an army.
He pulled a book from the shelf and caressed its buttery surface. His name, B. Ravenkind, had been burned into the leather cover, and below it, the numeral two. A length of blue silk ribbon marked his current page, and he turned to it.
Penned in his own exquisite script was the personal information of his newest armsman, Domach Demonshredder. Both parents were deceased, but the young man had a sister. From the way he’d gone on and on about the wench, Brodas knew she would be a valuable asset if ever Domach needed some incentive. Yet, Brodas doubted he would ever have need of her. Domach laughed too loudly at Brodas’s jokes, was over-eager to shake Brodas’s hand. He was drawn to power like leeches to a fat man in a bog.
Brodas dipped a quill into an inkpot and began to write. A strong, enthusiastic young man, Domach has a hungry look in his eyes. I have no doubt that he will do whatever’s asked of him, given the right incentive.
An ambitious man was an asset. Men who hungered for nothing eventually became dangerous, as they couldn’t be easily coerced. Brodas had learned that lesson nearly five years ago at the hands of Gavin Kinshield. But Kinshield had learned his own lesson.
Brodas bent back to the page. I need more battlers like Domach: well-armed mercenaries ready to defend my rights when the time comes, willing to fight for my destiny by way of their own security. An army of them, with a commander who would follow my every command.
Someone knocked on the doorframe. “You wanted to see me?”
Brodas looked up at his cousin and wrinkled his nose at the strong smell of sweat. While he admired Warrick’s height and broad shoulders, Brodas considered himself the more handsome of the two. They both shared their mothers’ black hair and brilliant blue eyes, and each had his own version of what Brodas thought to be a dashing smile. But Warrick tended toward impulsive behavior at times, as evidenced by a slightly crooked nose, which spoiled an otherwise handsome face. His thick mustache did not conceal the scar on his upper lip, one he’d gotten from brawling. Although Warrick had no magic ability, he was strong and capable with a sword and, when the need arose, a hammer.
“How are the repairs coming?” Brodas asked. He wiped ink off the quill and set it on a wooden platter.
“Slowly. The back steps are nearly finished, and Red has fixed the stalls in the stable. He’s working on the door now and should be finished by evening.”
Brodas scowled. “Urge him to work harder. There’s much to do. And see if you can fix that creaking stair, will you? Where’s the boy?”
“Under foot,” Warrick replied with an exasperated tone.
“Is he asking questions?”
“Are you jesting? He won’t shut up.”
“Is he asking about his mother?” Brodas asked dryly.
“Of course. I repeated your story about going to her aunt’s house. He’s asked why he couldn’t go with her at least three dozen times. Brodas, I don’t have the patience to play nursemaid.”
“Put him in the cellar if he’s in your way, then. I’ll have the steward deal with him until we can make other arrangements.”
“Why not just put him on the street? Isn’t that where orphans end up anyway?”
“Warrick, I’m surprised at you,” Brodas said. “He’s six years old. If we sell him to the slavers, everyone wins.”
“Yes, but until then, I have to put up with him. Did you want something else?”
“Yes. I need you to take this letter to the guild mistress of the Viragon Sisterhood. Don’t allow her underlings to take it to her; insist that you be allowed to deliver it yourself. Wait for a reply.”
“What is it?”
“We are inviting the guild mistress and her captain to dinner tomorrow. Be sure you are available.”
With a knowing smile, Warrick took the scroll and left.
Chapter 3
Gavin set his tankard down, wiped his mouth with a stained gray sleeve, and looked up. In his left hand, he rolled the hilt of his battered dagger between his fingers.
A hollow-faced man stood at a polite distance, dressed in the blue and white robe of a scholar with a velvety black scarf draped across his shoulders. When Gavin looked up, he took a step backward and gasped. His blue eyes blinked owl-like behind thick spectacles. Gavin didn’t know whether his gaze or his scars inspired the man’s misgiving, but the reaction disturbed him all the same.
“I’m Laemyr Surraent,” the man said in a cracking voice, “curator of the Gwanry Museum of History here in Ambryce.” He hesitated before stepping forward and extending a hand.
Gavin wrapped his paw around the man’s moist hand and gave it a squeeze. It felt like a woman’s. “Gavin Kinshield,” he said. He pushed a chair away from the table with his foot as an invitation to sit.
“Kinshield, did you say?” Laemyr asked as he eased himself into the chair.
“That’s what I said.” Bending close to the table, Gavin blew away the tiny chips of wood speckling the top, then wiped a hand over its rough surface.
“You must be proud to share a name with—”
“What’s the job, and what are you paying?” With his knife, he started scratching a vertical line into the wood, parallel to the one he’d carved moments earlier.
The barmaid approached and asked Laemyr, “Get you somethin’?”
Laemyr held up a hand and shook his head, and the girl left. He turned back to Gavin and leaned forward. “I need someone to recover a stolen necklace.”
“Thief hunt, eh? Not interested.” Gavin brushed aside the bits of wood and scraped harder with his knife to widen the line.
“The lordover’s men-at-arms have captured the thief,“ Laemyr went on, ”but he did not have the necklace. He claims someone stole it from him.”
Right. Thieves were pitiful foes and rarely presented the kind of challenge Gavin looked for in his work. He had enough money to live on while he waited for a more exciting offer. “See that buck over there?” He pointed his knife toward a slender youth sitting several tables away. “He’s your man.” Between the two lines, Gavin carved another, diagonal this time, from top right to bottom left.
“I need someone more experienced. It’s not just a necklace, you see. It’s an artifact from the reign of King Arek,” Laemyr said.
Gavin raised his eyes to the curator’s face. “What artifact?”
“Queen Calewen’s Pendant.” Laemyr took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Someone broke into the Grand Mausoleum and desecrated her shrine, stealing the necklace and … urinating on the sarcophagus.” Laemyr scrunched his face into an expression of disgust. “The lordover has agreed to let me preserve the pendant with our other artifacts -- if I can get it back. We are not a wealthy institution, but I would make it well worth your while.”
Feigning indifference, Gavin bent back to the table and started again: another diagonal line crossing the first. “How well?” he asked, although it wouldn’t matter. He imagined holding in his own hand the pendant that King Arek had given to Queen Calewen two hundred years ago and grew edgy.
“I can pay you four dyclen.”
Gavin snorted. “If you consider that ‘worth my while,’ then you don’t value my time or my life much. Look, I have to eat.”
“As a piece of our history, it belongs in a museum,” Laemyr said. “It’s more than just a pretty bauble.”
Gavin blew the last bits of wood from the tabletop and inspected his artwork. Amidst the many names, declarations of love and occasional vulgar word or image, he’d carved a symbol.
“The fourth King’s Rune,” Laemyr said.
Gavin snapped his head up and met the
curator’s eyes. “What?”
“Y-You carved the fourth rune into the table.”
Damn, Gavin thought, licking his lips. What had he been thinking? Of course the man would recognize the rune; he was a scholar. And he might be clever enough to guess Gavin’s secret. “This is an hourglass,” he said, “and it’s time to go.” He started to rise.
“Wait, please. We haven’t much money in the coffer, but there’s something else I can give you.” Laemyr gestured for Gavin to sit back down. “Please.”
Gavin sat and tilted his chair back, balancing on its rear legs. He laid his knife atop the rune he’d just carved. Not many people this far south knew that the third rune had been deciphered. The fact that he’d carved the fourth rune, not the third, might have told the scholar more than Gavin wanted to tell.
“You’re a descendant of Ronor Kinshield, are you not?” the curator asked.
Gavin sighed. “So?” If he heard one more comment about what a hero Ronor Kinshield had been, he thought he would vomit. Heroes didn’t let kings die.
Laemyr leaned forward. “In addition to the silver, I’ll give you something you’ll find of great interest.”
Gavin crossed his arms. “Go on.”
“I will have a scribe copy for you, word for word, the letter that Ronor Kinshield wrote to the Lordover Tern following King Arek’s death.”
The front two legs of Gavin’s chair slammed down on the wooden floor. “You have it?”
“It was just recently located,” Laemyr said.
Gavin hadn’t been sure the letter still existed. Scholars had long speculated that it had burned in a fire at the Lordover Tern’s manor a century ago. Surely it contained a detailed – and accurate – accounting of King Arek’s demise. “What does it say?”
Laemyr laced his fingers together and put his hands on the table. “It’s a fascinating read for both scholars and laity interested in the lore of King Arek.”
“Does it say what happened to the king and queen? Why King Arek put the gems in the tablet?”