Jenko Bruk stood directly behind the girl. He was also shirtless, his dark, tousled hair nearly brushing against the underside of the hayloft above. Ava closed her eyes and leaned back into him, her golden-blond curls nestling softly against his corded, muscular chest. Jenko’s bulk swallowed her up as he wrapped her in his arms. The two stood that way for some time, almost seeming to melt into each other. Motes of straw dust floated about them—yellow sprinkles in the torchlight.
Nail’s heart thundered and blood rushed to his head. He made a conscious effort to slow his own breathing. His vision wavered. Something beyond jealousy rushed through his stomach and curdled his bowels. And when Jenko’s hand slipped down into the folds of Ava’s skirt and caressed the spot between her legs, Nail turned and ran.
As he dashed away into the forest, legs pounding, the night around him was naught but a vast realm of anguish and hurt, a floating landscape of suffering that rolled its horizons onward endlessly and forever. Total loss engulfed him with searing pain.
His running dwindled to an aimless walk. He found himself panting, gasping for air. His lungs burned and loneliness sang its unforgiving song. His fingers still clenched the hilt of his sword with a rigid resolve. They ached from the strain. He spied a fallen tree branch on the ground before him and struck at it. The branch snapped in twain as his blade bit into it, both sides popping up onto the air. Lurching forward, he found another fallen twig and busted it also. A lone aspen tree rose up in his path. Screaming aloud in a black and violent need for absolution, he hefted the sword over his head and brought it crashing down against the tree. White bark splintered and snapped. He struck the tree again, then a third time, a fourth. Tightly drawn anger flared bold and brilliant, then narrowed into a grim, icy blade of rage. Then came a sickening twang as his sword snapped just above the hilt and the blade spun away into the forest.
He held the hilt of the shattered sword up, not knowing quite what to think. The broken blade stared right back at him, as if to say, You pathetic, pathetic fool. Now look what you have done. He stumbled away from the aspen tree in a fog, still gripping the ruined sword. As he drew nearer to town, the sounds of the still lively feast grew in volume, the noise like a beacon in the night. He soon found himself standing in front of the Grayken Spear Inn. He let the broken sword fall from his fingers to the dirt. Alone on the street, he stared at Ol’ Man Leddingham’s building, the only place in all of Gallows Haven that had ever given him joy.
He moved on, reaching the docks, finding Lord Jubal Bruk’s grayken-hunting ship moored there. He gazed heavenward through the spiderweb of her lofty mast and rigging; the stars glittered between crisscrossing ropes and beams. Nail realized that the Lady Kindly might be the only mother he’d ever known. Slowly, he climbed onto her. Climbed her rigging as high as he could go. Once atop the crow’s nest, alone and filled with sorrow, he curled up in his cold leather greaves, tormented, powerless, and lost.
Folded in exhaustion, swaddled in darkness, Nail remained on his perch all through the night.
* * *
Wars raged across the breadth of the Five Isles. Man turned against man, Vallè against dwarf against oghul. And those who rose to become Demon Lords railed against all—atop their fiery winged steeds, they ruled.
—THE WAY AND TRUTH OF LAIJON
* * *
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
TALA BRONACHELL
1ST DAY OF THE MOURNING MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
His cell is at the end of a blind turn in the corridor behind an outer door that is shut off from the other prisoners.” Roguemoore felt the wall of the passageway with calloused hands. “We will proceed into his cell undetected easy enough.”
Jondralyn held the torch to the wall, illuminating it. This task couldn’t have been more accommodating to Tala’s own needs had she prayed to Laijon asking such favor. Things were falling into place. Tala had twined together a wreath of heather—a crown of flowers wrapped in white thread. The gift was Jondralyn’s idea, as were the sack of food and crock of water, all for Squireck Van Hester.
Roguemoore had guided them to the Amadon Castle stables and to a sewer grate hiding under a stack of dung-riddled hay at the rear of the fourth stall of the second row. Under the grate was a circular hole and a ladder, which they climbed down a considerable length. Once at the bottom, a dark path sloped down even farther underground. Tala had noted a number of narrower passages leading off the main pathway. There were many locked iron grates, and the dwarf knew all the secret latches. “Fear not, Tala,” the dwarf had said. “A maze of hidden doors and dead ends. But I always find my way out.” Tala, too, had a keen sense of direction, and a knack for memorizing passageways. If she’d been to a place once, she could get there again.
The passageway eventually leveled off, and they continued single file through a narrow tunnel, the dwarf leading, Tala in the middle, and Jondralyn, carrying Squireck’s food and water, bringing up the rear, all in heavy cloaks with hoods pulled up. Water wept from cracks in the walls, splashing their feet. From the smell, Tala figured they were traipsing through the sewers of Amadon. She’d felt the need to breathe through her mouth to avoid the stench. Her imagination began conjuring up images of a dark-cloaked Bloodwood with poisoned daggers lurking around every turn.
At one juncture, Roguemoore pointed out a stairway that disappeared up into the gloom, telling her that it emptied out of a sewer grate near the docks. If the castle were ever attacked, that would be a good escape route, Tala made note.
After a dozen more turns and dark hanging stairways, they reached the very spot they now stood in, facing a gray stone wall, feet soaking, clothing smelly and cold.
“I may talk with Squireck about things best kept secret,” Roguemoore said, locating a hidden latch on the wall, silently working it with his fingers, “things regarding Ser Roderic Raybourne. Whatever you overhear, neither of you repeat to anyone.”
The dwarf motioned for Jondralyn to extinguish the torch, and they were plunged into blackness. With a faint creaking, a portion of the corridor’s wall swung open a crack, and dim golden light spilled forth from a small room on the other side. The dwarf bade them enter. Jondralyn squeezed through the door first. Tala had to duck as she stepped into this new place. “Stinks in here,” she said.
“Quiet,” whispered Roguemoore. He removed the mace strapped to his shoulder, wedged it between the door and wall, then stepped over it and into the room behind her.
Tala’s eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light. This new room was small and dark save for flickering torchlight drifting in from the iron-barred window set in the door opposite the one they’d entered. The chill air was musty and damp. There was a figure wrapped in a blanket on the floor in the corner of the room and a pile of bright red armor next to a small circular drain in the middle of the room.
With a start, Tala realized they were in Squireck’s cell under the arena. Her eyes focused on the pile of armor and the red-spiked helmet and a thought struck her. Is there no place in Amadon safe from secret tunnels?
Squireck Van Hester stood. He towered over them, blocking the light, long blond hair glowing, backlit and silhouetted by the golden beam streaming through the barred window.
“Who is here?” He rubbed his eyes. A chain, fastened to another short chain that connected the iron manacles on both wrists, was bolted into the floor near where he’d lain.
This was not the Prince of Saint Only Tala had known as a child. There was a brutishness about this Squireck that marked him as a criminal of the gladiator pit. Tala found she was frightened of him, felt in awe of him, and sensed pity for him all at once.
“Surprised?” A smile tugged at the dwarf’s beard as he dropped the hood of his cloak.
“A hidden doorway opens up in a dungeon cell and three cloaked figures emerge from the darkness,” Squireck said dryly. “Nothing surprising about that.”
“Don’t think you can escape just yet. It only opens from
the opposite side. My mace holds it open. Had it closed behind us, we’d all have a lot of explaining to do.”
A trace of puzzlement hung over Squireck’s face. “Why after nearly a year do you visit me now?”
Jondralyn was nothing more than a cloaked shadow moving in the dark. She set the sack of food and crock of water on the floor, then retreated to the back of the cell.
Squireck’s eyes lit up. “Jon,” he exclaimed, face bright and alive, reaching for her. But the chain that held him to the floor also held him far from her. He tugged on the chains at his wrists in frustration. “I have missed you so. What brings you here?”
“To help you.” She motioned to the food and water.
“You came just to give me food?” His sorrow-filled eyes lingered on the sack, while his desire for Jondralyn was evident in his very stance. “Though don’t think me ungrateful. I am glad for it. I’ve been given nothing but a few crusts of bread and a pot or two of water these last seven days.
Roguemoore said, “Jovan decreed that nobody is to give you anything but bread and water without leave from him.”
“The guards will find this stuff you’ve brought. They will take it. And a whole host of questions as to its origins will open up. They might just find you here now.”
“I care not if the guards find me,” the dwarf said. “But things being as they are, it’s best they not see Jon in here and report it to Jovan. So our visit will be brief.”
“Who is this with you?” Squireck bent forward and looked at Tala. She removed her hood. “Tala?” The surprise and joy in his voice sounded genuine. “Last I saw you, you were a full year younger. What a difference a year makes. You take after your sister. Beauty beyond reckoning.”
Tala felt both flattered and ill at ease under his scrutiny. After all, this was an imposing man before her. A man chained in a cell for murder, a man who had viciously slain other men on the arena floor with ease. Indeed, this hard-muscled stranger looming over her was not the fair-faced, smiling Prince of Saint Only she remembered. The blanket slipped off his shoulder and she could see the swollen square gladiator brand on his chest, red and raw. She grew more nervous under his gaze and looked away, eyes traveling to the red pile of armor and the spiked helm that sat atop it.
“I did not come just to bring you food,” Jondralyn blurted. “It would be a lie if I left here with you believing that. I’ve another purpose.”
Squireck stood up, expectant, drinking her in with his eyes.
“What must one do to train for the arena matches?” Jondralyn asked. “In ages past, nobles, even kings, ofttimes fought in the arena to gain favor with the public. I wish to do the same. I feel it’s my calling.”
“Your calling?” the dwarf said, his face impassive.
An impatient look came over Jondralyn as she met the dwarf’s gaze. “Jovan is grossly misled by his councillors, especially Val-Korin, Denarius, and the quorum. My fear is the same as yours, Roguemoore, that my brother will never muster arms against Sør Sevier and defend our shores. Were I king, I would have Gul Kana’s forces doubled, tripled, ready to meet the Sør Sevier invasion.”
“How does this explain your interest in training for the arena?”
“I’m afraid I may have to supplant my brother as ruler of Gul Kana.”
Tala drew a deep breath, feeling it catch in her throat. Her older sister’s blunt proclamation smacked of treason. She wished she had not heard such words.
“I dare not kill Jovan myself, nor have him assassinated,” Jondralyn said, trepidation in her voice. “The arena is the only way the public will accept my claim to the throne. It has happened once before. Long ago. A woman ruling Gul Kana, a woman gladiator. Adonna Bronachell. She was a sister to the king, betrothed at a young age to an influential lord. She was a princess who triumphed in the arena and usurped a king. She ruled for a generation.”
Tala’s whole body had grown rigid. She realized with a sinking heart that things in Amadon were growing dire. The bonds of her family were being torn asunder. She feared that she herself was now getting more deeply involved in this grim business that had sprouted up between her older siblings.
“I’ve been studying some of the hidden histories Hawkwood shared,” Jondralyn continued. “In the first centuries after Laijon’s death, a son or brother of the king could challenge the crown by declaring his right to do so and then proving Laijon’s favor by fighting in the tournament. If victorious, the crown was transferred to him. Why cannot a sister of a king do the same, like Adonna of old?”
“Adonna Bronachell is but a myth,” the dwarf said.
“I found her name in the histories. I aim to follow her path.”
“You share books with Hawkwood?” The tone of Squireck’s question betrayed immense jealousy. He turned toward Roguemoore. “Now she wishes to fight in the arena? Did you know of this folly, dwarf?”
“I am as shocked to hear of it as I’m sure Tala is,” Roguemoore said, adopting a stern tone, looking at her, concern etched on his face. “You must never speak of this to anyone, dear Tala. I fear bringing you here may have been a mistake.” Roguemoore gave Jondralyn a severe look. “Fighting in the arena? Squireck is right. What folly is this?”
“No more foolish than dueling four Dayknights,” Jondralyn said.
“Dueling four Dayknights?” Squireck turned to the dwarf.
“It’s Hawkwood’s fight,” Roguemoore said with a mirthless smile. “Nothing you need worry about.” He turned to Jondralyn. “The duel with the Dayknights will teach the king and his advisers a great lesson—”
Squireck interrupted, “You and Hawkwood cannot think to smash sense into Jovan’s head by force of arms and duels. It will only make both him and his advisers more militantly opposed to our cause. Let me prove the truth of our cause in the arena. As we agreed. As was planned. As is prophesied.”
There was silence between the two. Squireck continued, “However”—he looked squarely at Jondralyn—“I do see some wisdom in what Jon says about supplanting Jovan. There is nobility in it.”
Jondralyn dipped her head at his praise.
“If you attempt this, Jon, you wll die.” The dwarf spoke with distaste. “I think it a foolish quest.”
“You would.” Jondralyn shot the dwarf a cold look.
Squireck was still looking at Jondralyn. “I would train you. Alas, things being as they are, that is impossible. But rumor is, even deep in the dungeons of the arena, that you and Hawkwood are close.” Squireck swallowed hard. “Perhaps he already trains you.”
“Hawkwood has trained me some. But I want to know how to fight in the arena. I want to learn to fight like a gladiator. I want the power to win.”
“Like a gladiator?” Squireck said, his tone questioning.
“Yes.” Jondralyn stepped toward him. “Like a gladiator.” She stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek, her hand touching the side of his neck, fingers lingering there a moment before she stepped back.
“As you wish,” Squireck said. “Like a gladiator. Visit Anjk Bourbon in Amadon’s northern market district. He’s a crabby old bloodsucker for sure, a blacksmith who sells weapons. He may be shriveled and leathery and distrustful of humans, but he’s one of the best oghul fighters. Pay him well and he will teach you the brute strength and conditioning suitable for heavy swordsmanship, plus a few oghul tricks. Spend six hours a day with him. In Val-Korin’s retinue there is a bodyguard named Val-So-Vreign. For a little coin, he will work with you and keep your training discreet. Spend another six hours a day under his tutelage. Val-So-Vreign will train you the Vallè way—speed and accuracy with both sword and knife.”
“Twelve hours a day?” Jondralyn asked. “It seems so much.”
“If you cannot dedicate yourself to a strict regimen, do not step one foot into the arena. It’s a dangerous place to venture untrained. More so for a woman.”
“Perhaps I can ask Val-Draekin to help.” Jondralyn turned to Roguemoore, her eyes lighting up. �
��He has already offered.”
“Val-Draekin?” Squireck said the name slowly, deliberately, eyes darkening.
Jondralyn went on, “He offered to train me to fight as the Vallè do. He certainly seems competent. And he may prove to be more discreet than Val-So-Vreign even.”
“I scarcely see the point,” Roguemoore said. “It’s a foolish undertaking.”
“Who’s this Val-Draekin?” Squireck’s eyes were boring into those of the dwarf with some expectation.
“A raven-haired Vallè we rescued from a dockside saloon,” Roguemoore said. “He claims to be in love with Val-Korin’s daughter Breita.”
The dwarf pulled a golden coin from his pocket. “He gave me this.”
Tala was taken aback by the grin that spread over Squireck’s face at this seemingly trivial trinket. “Laijon is truly with us.”
“Aye.” The dwarf stuffed the coin back into his cloak. “The scrolls were right. Our cause is just. But do not become too overjoyed. Rumor is, Aeros Raijael has reached the Laijon Towers. King Torrence’s last stand. If Torrence dies, or if he’s already dead, his death will be a blow to the Brethren. It could be weeks before word of his fate reaches us. And the White Prince would then likely be in possession of one of those artifacts we had wished kept secret.”
“Ser Roderic is still in Gallows Haven? He still watches over the boy?”
The dwarf nodded.
“Val-Draekin,” Squireck said the name again, an undertone of reverence in his voice.
Tala thought of the Vallè—Val-Draekin—how even injured, he could fight better than any in the Silver Guard. What is so special about his name? Her eyes traveled to the pile of red armor, her thoughts on Lawri and the poison that was slowly killing her. She was mesmerized by the lump of spiky leather armor. But she could think of no good excuse to venture forth and lift up the helm and examine it for the assassin’s clue. She found herself shivering.
The Forgetting Moon Page 22