By the wards, she hoped not.
A breeze blew past, and the windchimes on their porch danced, singing a soft and hopeful broken chord. Sable tugged her heavy cowl over her head and went on her way.
The muted light of dawn dappled the treetops, gently coaxing the sleepy town awake, and a haze of chimney smoke made everything gauzy and gray. Sable kept to the long morning shadows, moving lightly upon her feet as she placed packages on appropriate porches. A few chickens squawked, pecking at the dirt, and somewhere a rooster crowed. She spotted a sober Benioff on his porch, bent over his forge and squeezing the bellows over hot coals. For many of them, the weeks preceding Belfast—The Wilds’ final harvest—were difficult, everyone scrambling to finish last-minute preparations before the first snowfall. Once snow arrived in Skanden, it stayed till spring, and there would be no leaving town until then.
Benioff hammered steel, and as Sable passed, the percussive beat synched with her steps until she turned down the narrow road leading to Ivar’s. The mottled windows of The Honest Thief were dark this morning, but smoke rose from the chimney, and the sweet scent of baked bread teased the air. She stepped through the front door and into a quiet dining hall. A fire yawned in the large hearth, and seated alone at a table, tearing into a steaming roll, was Velik.
Velik glanced over, his dark eyes narrowed.
She hadn’t seen him since that night, and now, looking at him, she suddenly remembered the way he’d touched her.
Velik tipped his head a fraction, eyes never leaving hers. There was challenge to the gesture, a warning and a promise. As if he’d read her thoughts and relished in the fear they’d incited.
Sable graced him with a glare of her own before making her way to the counter, where Ivar busied himself wiping and stocking shelves. He noticed Sable and set the rag down.
“Mornin’,” he said with a slight nod, though his eyes drifted to Velik.
She couldn’t fault him for it. Associating with her was bad for business, and Velik—the town’s sole butcher—possessed highly coveted clout.
“Good morning,” Sable replied politely, but not too friendly. She set the five coins on the counter. “Do you have any of that elderberry mead? It’s for Tolya.”
“You’re in luck. Bottled a fresh brew yesterday. I’ll be right back,” he said, casting Velik a perfunctory glance before ducking through the back door.
A log crackled in the hearth, and Velik slurped his ale louder than necessary. Sable tapped her thumbs upon the countertop, ignoring him.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” Velik said lowly, suggestively.
Sable ignored him.
“I’m talking to you, Scablicker.”
Sable stopped tapping and glanced over her shoulder, eyes narrowed on Velik. “What do you want, Velik?”
His lips curled as he chewed on his roll, slow and steady. “I’m not sure yet.”
Sable opened her mouth to give a sharp retort, but Ivar reappeared. He looked slowly from Velik to Sable, and Velik smiled, leaned back in his chair, and folded his arms while he chewed, tauntingly.
Ivar’s brow wrinkled, and he set an amber bottle on the countertop. “Here ya are.”
Sable took it. “Thanks.”
“Give my compliments to the old woman.” He winked.
“I always do.” Sable gave a small grin and left, feeling Velik’s eyes on her back every step of the way.
Velik watched the Scablicker leave and caught Ivar’s keen gaze before returning to his roll. He was about to take another bite when the door opened, and a scrawny boy rushed in. The boy spotted Velik and motioned for Velik to follow him.
Velik wiped his mouth and stood, sending the bench screeching across the wooden floorboards. “Thanks, old man. Say hello to Brinn.” Velik winked.
Ivar’s eyes narrowed.
Velik had a little arrangement with Brinn, Ivar’s granddaughter. He gave them a good deal on meats, they gave him a good deal on meals and ale. Of course, he only gave Brinn the scraps and fatty cuts, but she wasn’t smart enough to know better. She didn’t fill his heart, but she filled his stomach, and he found that the two balanced each other out. It also helped that she never shied away from his touch.
Velik followed the boy out the door and into the shadows of an empty path.
“What’s taken you so long?” Velik snarled, once he was certain no one was near.
“This is the first time she’s left the house since you asked me to spy on her!” the boy defended.
Velik’s gaze darted furtively, just to be sure no one looked on. “Well? Find anything?”
The boy pulled something from his pocket: a painted black bone.
Velik cuffed the boy on the head. “How’s a painted bone supposed to prove anything?”
“It’s not just a bone,” the boy stammered, ducking back as if anticipating another hit. “It’s a flute.”
Velik raised a hand to cuff the boy again, but the boy jumped back and hissed, “It’s covered in Liagé glyphs!”
Velik froze. He tilted his head to the side, studying the flute. What he’d initially dismissed as faint swirls were, in fact, glyphs—the old language of Scab sorcerers. Liagé, the Scabs called them. He didn’t know the language, but he recognized it. Anyone from The Wilds could. They were the same symbols etched onto their wards.
“Give me that.” He jerked the flute from the boy. “Where’d you find it?”
The boy rubbed his head. “In her room.”
“Where was the old woman?”
“Sleeping. She didn’t hear me. I looked for the things you mentioned, but I couldn’t find them.”
That meant scat. The Scablicker could’ve easily given the items away, but it made proving her guilt difficult.
“The flute was hidden in the floor,” the boy added.
Velik’s gaze shot to the boy.
“Beneath a floorboard,” the boy continued. “I noticed one sticking up from the others, so I tried it, and it pulled free. Found that in a box.”
Velik tucked the flute inside his cloak.
The boy stuck out a dirty hand.
Velik dropped a crown in his palm.
The boy frowned at the crown, then up at Velik. “That’s not what you promised.”
“You didn’t deliver what I asked. You’re lucky I’m giving you scat.”
The boy’s brow hardened as he curled his fingers around the crown and shoved it in his pocket.
“Now, git,” Velik snarled.
The boy ducked and vanished down the alley.
Velik discreetly withdrew the flute and glanced over it again. He had no idea what it meant, but considering the markings, and where the Scablicker had kept it, she hadn’t meant for anyone to find it.
What are you hiding, Scablicker?
Velik slipped the flute back inside his cloak. He would bring this to Ventus. Ventus would know what it meant, and he and his Silent would be here soon—for Belfast.
5
Jeric hesitated at the door.
Gods, he didn’t have time for this, but if he didn’t make time, suspicion would follow. He couldn’t afford to be followed by suspicion. Not now.
He pressed down the front of his doublet, took a deep breath, opened the door, and strode inside.
His older brother, Prince Hagan Marsellius Tommad Angevin, heir to Corinth’s throne, stood in a small group, speaking in hushed tones. If Hagan’s height and broad, soft bulk didn’t set him apart from the others, his flaming red hair finished the job. That, he’d inherited from their father, as well as the steel gray eyes that could cut a man down where he stood.
Jeric had inherited their father’s height, but his constant training kept him muscular and lean, and his burnished brass hair, dark blue eyes, and high cheekbones had come from their late mother. Hagan used to tease him for being too pretty but stopped once they’d hit puberty and he’d realized all the women were starting to agree with him.
The men in Hagan’s present company wer
e all members of their father’s council—save Commander Anaton—all pining to be the future king’s lapdog. Hagan’s lap was a cramped place to be. Which was why Jeric typically avoided it.
Jeric was halfway to them when Hagan finally glanced up.
Hagan’s smile was synthetic, Jeric’s wolfish. His older brother might hold a special place of disdain in his heart for him, but Hagan still needed Jeric to cover up his messes, and Hagan knew it. Which, consequently, contributed to that disdain. On both sides.
“Ah, there you are,” Hagan said, all bombast and good cheer. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”
“I was,” Jeric said as they embraced. “Lina’s mercy, you reek.”
Hagan laughed. A few of the council decided to laugh too.
Jeric never understood how Hagan could bear having so many heads up his rear.
“Excuse us, gentlemen,” Hagan dismissed the others.
The council members gave quick bows to both princes and retreated. Commander Anaton exchanged a weighted glance with Hagan, who said sharply, “We’ll discuss later.”
The commander nodded and tipped his head respectfully to Jeric. “Good to see you’ve returned, Prince Jeric,” he said, then exited the door, leaving the two brothers alone.
“Discuss what later?” Jeric asked.
Hagan pulled his gaze from the door and fixed his attention on Jeric. “Nothing of importance to a Wolf.” He smiled, all teeth, but Jeric could see that whatever the commander wanted to discuss rattled his brother.
“So…?” Hagan strode around his desk, closing the discussion, and unstoppered a decanter full of akavit—a Corinthian spirit and, unfortunately, an Angevin family staple. Jeric liked strong drink, but this tasted like scat and burned like a forge. “How have things been in my absence?”
“Boring as hells.” Jeric thumbed through the various drawings and schematics strewn upon Hagan’s desk—one of which was the map he’d found. Curiously, Reichen had been circled. “You leave and take all the scandal with you.”
Hagan poured himself a drink. “Well, if I’d known how much you thrived on my scandal, I would’ve asked you to come along.”
“Gods, no. I’d rather be thrown to the Wastes than endure another voyage on that oversized chamber pot.”
Hagan eyed him. “It’s not so terrible if you stay above deck.”
“And it’s really not so terrible if you stay off of it altogether.”
Jeric had taken one sea voyage in his life, and he’d sworn to the gods it would be his last. He’d spent two weeks below deck retching, and then—when he’d had nothing left to retch—he’d vomited bile and blood. It’d gotten so bad, the physician on board had expressed concerned for Jeric’s survival. Jeric had survived. He never could decide if Hagan was happy about that or not.
“Come on, it couldn’t have been that boring,” Hagan said, pouring a second glass of the tawny liquid for Jeric, though he knew Jeric loathed the stuff. “Anaton says you and your Wolf pack hunted down and destroyed five rebel groups while I was away. And you brought me three prisoners.”
Jeric sat down in the leather chair, draping one long leg over its arm. He never fit in any of these rutting chairs. “Have you learned anything?”
Hagan slid one glass to Jeric. He didn’t meet Jeric’s gaze. “No.”
Jeric studied his brother, not bothering to reach for the glass. “What about the map?”
“Simple mistakes.”
Jeric slid his leg down to the floor and leaned forward. “You’re telling me that I just risked my neck—my men’s necks—acquiring those Scabs, and your inquisitors couldn’t find one rutting clue about who’s behind the raids?”
“Risk your neck?” Hagan gave Jeric a flat look. “Please. I thought you said you were bored.”
Sometimes Jeric really wanted to punch Hagan in his smug, square face.
Hagan gave him a tight smile. “Why don’t you take a drink, Jeric. You look like you need one.”
Jeric eyed his glass. “I don’t know how you stand it.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to. It’s a king’s drink.”
Jeric saw the goading in Hagan’s eyes—the challenge in those steely grays. Jeric wouldn’t bite. Instead, he glanced down at the papers on Hagan’s desk. “What did you do with the other artifacts we found?”
“They’re with Rasmin under evaluation.”
Rasmin was Skyhold’s Head Inquisitor, feared by the public almost as much as the Wolf himself. All matters pertaining to Scab affiliation ultimately went through him and had done so since the beginning of even their father’s reign.
Jeric watched Hagan. “Do you trust Rasmin?”
Hagan met his gaze. “Father does.”
Not the question he’d asked, but he knew that face. It was the same face their father made. Pressing the issue would only make Hagan more resolute in his secrecy. Both Hagan and their father liked holding power, and holding it closely. It was a treasure they entrusted to no other.
“Speaking of Father, have you visited him yet?” Jeric asked.
His question had the intended effect, and Jeric drew a great amount of pleasure watching the muscle in Hagan’s thick neck tighten.
“Briefly. He didn’t speak much.”
“One can hardly blame him. He’s dying, and you’re gallivanting about the coast.”
Hagan frowned. “It’s called diplomacy, Jeric.”
Jeric flashed his teeth. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
Hagan’s eyes shone with warning.
Jeric picked up his glass. “Cheers.”
Hagan picked up his own glass and tilted it toward Jeric’s. “Cheers.”
“To…?”
A triumphant spark lit Hagan’s eyes. “To reclaiming Sanvik.”
Reclaiming Sanvik.
The statement shouldn’t have surprised Jeric. It’d been their father’s dream as well. Before the war with Sol Velor, Sanvik had belonged to Corinth. It was a trading mecca, situated along a delta that touched Brevera, Corinth, and Davros before dumping into the sea. But Corinth had suffered great losses during that war, and Corinth had returned to their former capital only to find that Brevera had claimed it for themselves. Ever since, the people of Corinth—including their father and his father before him—had dreamed of a day when they could take it back. It was their right, according to the gods. But none had voiced this desire as assuredly as Hagan had just then. Which meant Hagan had learned something, and he was lying about it.
They clanked glasses, and both men drained the contents. The alcohol burned down Jeric’s chest. He repressed a cough as he set his empty glass down on the table with a hollow thunk.
Hagan graced him with a condescending grin. “As much as I’ve missed your company, brother, there is something very important that I need to discuss with you, which is why I sent Farvyn.”
Jeric watched his brother carefully. Hagan had been absent almost two months. It was impossible he could’ve discovered…
“It concerns Father,” Hagan said.
Jeric masked his relief.
Hagan crossed over to the window and gazed through the murky panes. The sky beyond was dark. The days grew shorter and shorter as winter approached.
“Clearly, our healers are proving ineffective,” he continued. “It’s been four months, and Father’s still sick. He hasn’t worsened, but neither has he improved. One of my rats discovered someone who might be able to help.”
Jeric hadn’t expected this turn of conversation. Leather creaked as he leaned back, stretching his legs and crossing his ankles, trying to make himself comfortable in the too small chair. “I thought you’d already bled Corinth dry for healers.”
“She’s not in Corinth.”
Jeric eyed Hagan, wondering what he had up his deep, dark sleeves.
Hagan looked steadily back at him. “She’s in The Wilds.”
Jeric waited, his expression neutral, though his senses went on high alert. It was the same fee
ling he got in battle when he knew he was about to be cornered.
Hagan continued. “She’s originally from Istraa, but she’s living in Skanden now. Apparently, she trained under Gamla Khan. You remember—“
“I know who he is,” Jeric cut him off.
Gamla Khan was a legend in the healing arts, but they hadn’t sent for Gamla Khan because Gamla Khan was a prominent citizen of Trier, the capital of Istraa, and unceasingly faithful to his brother, the sar. The last thing they needed was for Sar Branón and the rest of the Five Provinces—Brevera, in particular—knowing the weakened state of Corinth and its even weaker king. They were vulnerable enough as it was.
“And your rat knows this how?” Jeric asked. Hagan had rats everywhere, but this news seemed a bit extreme.
Hagan shrugged and looked back to the window. “Some… reconnaissance in The Wilds.”
“Your rat’s lucky to be alive.”
“You always underestimate my rats.”
“And therefore they always exceed my expectations.”
Hagan allowed a small smile, then returned to the table. “I want you to find her and bring her here.”
Silence.
Jeric waited for Hagan to say he was joking, but Hagan did not.
Jeric bent forward, elbows on his knees. “You want me to travel to Skanden—deep into the heart of The Wilds—to find a woman your rat thinks might be able to help Father when Corinth’s masters have failed?”
“Yes.”
A pause. “How much did you drink while you were away?”
Hagan’s gaze sharpened. “This isn’t funny, Jeric.”
“Do you hear me laughing?”
Hagan looked back to the window.
“Gods, Hagan, this is madness!” Jeric threw his hands as he leaned back in the chair. “Even if this healer exists, it’s foolish enough traveling through The Wilds without a prisoner in tow.”
“I never said take her prisoner,” Hagan said evenly, suggestively, and maybe even a little bitterly. “Women love you. They always have. Once she sees you, I’m sure she’ll be begging to come along. She’ll be begging you for a lot of things.”
The Gods of Men Page 5