by Megan Derr
“Chat,” Rochus repeated slowly. “You didn't really waste time chatting.”
The pink in Tilo's cheeks darkened to red, but he didn't look embarrassed as much as ashamed. The small knot of dread in Rochus's stomach grew larger and sprouted thorns. “You were attractive. I thought, why not see what happens, if…”
“If you could stand to make yourself fuck a half-dead on the chance it was necessary to coax cooperation from your new, reluctant husband,” Rochus finished.
“That wasn't—”
Rochus didn't want to hear it. “You must have known when you heard my name that I was your intended victim.”
Tilo nodded jerkily, more miserable than ever.
“Hoping to entice cooperation before the vows were even spoken?” Rochus spat out, the thorns in his stomach large and sharp, spreading throughout his body, leaving a crushing ache in his chest. Disappointment, regret, and bitterness ran through him like poison. “Whored yourself out to your husband-to-be then disappeared only to leave me feeling the fool upon my arrival here.”
“It wasn't—”
Rochus barreled on, refusing to be interrupted by whatever pathetic excuse or justification Tilo contrived. “You forgot one little thing in all your scheming, little kit: all I have to do is marry you. A few vows and some signed papers are all that is required. I'm under no obligation to go anywhere with you.”
Tilo jerked, the flush draining from his cheeks, leaving him looking like a man who'd been viciously backhanded by someone he trusted. Tears ran down his cheeks, and the flames in the room went out as a rough, ragged sob echoed through it in the moment before he fled, the door hanging open in his wake.
Leaving Rochus feeling like the cheerless half-dead bastard everyone accused him of being. Tilo was the one forcing a marriage, the one who'd…
Rochus swallowed against the sour scrape of bile in his throat. Only an hour ago, thinking of Tilo and the night they'd spent together had brought a smile, warmed him as well as any fire. Now he just felt sick, angry enough to slam his fist through a wall. He'd thought the attraction mutual, had thought that perhaps, for once, the goddess was smiling down upon him, or that he'd simply gotten lucky. Instead he'd been the victim of his own damned ego and spent the night fucking somebody who'd never really wanted him. Fucked someone so desperate for help he'd been willing to spread for it.
And instead of acting his age about the situation, Rochus had piled cruelty on top of the whole mess.
He sighed and strode into to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes beside the bed, then washed up at the bowl nearby before crawling beneath the blankets. Across the room, firelight flickered softly, making the shadows dance. Hunger gnawed at Rochus, but he ignored it, too sick at heart to feel like drinking.
There was simply no help for it. He could go to Irmhild and tell her all that Tilo had told him, but clearly the problem in Tilo's territory had been going on long enough. Whatever game was in play, better to deal with the more pressing problem and then sort out the underhanded workings behind it.
And after his recent behavior, the very least he could do was help, instead of fobbing the matter off on Irmhild.
He'd always known he'd be dragged to the marriage altar eventually. Irmhild was old-fashioned that way, but he'd hoped the situation would be a bit more pleasant than a desperate dragon who thought he had no other options. Fool Rochus for thinking that someone so beautiful, intriguing, and eager would truly want him. The way Tilo had offered up his own blood should have been the first clue; nobody did that. People didn't offer blood unless they wanted something. If Rochus had been thinking clearly—thinking at all—he'd have realized something was wrong. Instead he'd ignored his own advice and listened only to his damned cock.
Tired of unhappy thoughts, Rochus pulled the blankets up high and closed his eyes, counting his breaths until he finally lulled himself to sleep.
Unfortunately, the dawning day was no more pleasant than the night—was indeed a good deal more unpleasant, if the raging storm outside was any sort of omen. Rochus sighed loud and long, then threw open the trunks of clothes he kept at the royal castle and slowly dressed in heavy, formal black robes decorated with silver embroidery depicting the skull and raven crest of the necromancers.
A soft meow greeted him as he entered the front room, and Memory jumped off the couch to come and rub around his ankles. He scooped her up for her morning petting. “Sucking up, hmm? What did you do, kill someone's pet? How many times must I tell you to stop doing that, Mem. How sad would I be if someone killed you for good? Don't do that to other people.”
She meowed again then wandered off to go sprawl in the long seat beneath the window she'd long claimed as belonging to her and no one else. From outside came Song's familiar caw, the soft rush of wings. Rochus pulled back the tapestry and stepped back enough the birds could land on the window sill.
When they were settled on his shoulders, he quickly drank the cooled tea on a tray that had been left for him, then ate the cinnamon bread that was also on it as he headed off to get married.
He was directed to the queen's private chapel, where a bleary-eyed priest waited, along with a clerk who was definitely more asleep than awake and looked more than a trifle hungover on top of that. Irmhild herself had dressed just sufficiently enough for propriety; Rochus had every faith the moment the deed was done she would be taking herself straight back to bed.
Tilo stood before the altar, quiet, still, and sad. Everyone around him seemed either uncaring about his obvious misery or was too exhausted to notice.
“It's about time,” Irmhild said as she saw Rochus. “All these years and you still cannot be bothered to show up to anything on time, not even your own wedding.”
“I show up on time frequently,” Rochus replied. “I'm only late to places I don't want to be.”
Irmhild rolled her eyes and motioned sharply for the priest to get to work. Rochus sent Song and Silence to the rafters then joined the small party at the altar. A tedious hour later, the vows were spoken and a tattooed band of intricate scrollwork was spelled around the base of Rochus's fingers on his left hand: one for his house, one for Landau's house, one for the church, one for the crown, to represent the bond had been properly and honestly made.
When they were done with the spoken part, it took another hour to go through all the paperwork, and by the time that was finished, all Rochus wanted to do was go back to bed. But he needed blood, and to have additional funds drawn to buy supplies he'd need once arriving at Landau's, and to have a word with a few people to see if he couldn't start piecing together what was going on with the missing petitions.
After the clerk had carried off the paperwork and the priest had quietly slipped away, the queen mumbled final congratulations around a yawn and left, leaving Rochus and Tilo alone.
“I apologize for troubling you, magus,” Tilo said. “I hope the marriage causes you no further inconvenience. After suitable time I will, of course, petition for the annulment. Good day—”
“I never said I wouldn't come with you,” Rochus replied. “Only that it was a flaw in your plan.”
Tilo's air of sad resignation turned into ire. “You made your feelings quite clear, magus. Do not act now—”
“I was cruel, I know it, and I am sorry,” Rochus said, and though Tilo looked annoyed at the continued interruptions, he remained silent as Rochus continued, “I'll come with you and help with whatever is wrong, and then we'll sort out the matter of the missing petitions. But there are things I need to do here first related to the matter, so is it all right if we leave later this afternoon, at the latest this evening?”
“You'll come?” Tilo asked, looking exhausted and broken and so heartbreakingly hopeful. Damn it.
Rochus gave a bare nod. “With the understanding that you'll annul the marriage after the matter is resolved.”
Tilo nodded so enthusiastically Rochus half-thought his neck would snap. He smiled brightly, sweet enough to kiss, and Rochus hated himself. “Of co
urse. I never wanted to force anyone to do anything, I promise. Help me and I'm more than happy to see the marriage is undone.”
“Very well, then. I will see you in the main courtyard at the last afternoon cry.”
Tilo nodded, then bowed, and Rochus swept out of the room. Song cawed on his shoulder. “Yes, yes,” Rochus grumbled. “When I want your unwelcome observations I will seek them out. Until such time, be more like your sister.”
He threaded through the castle halls until he reached the Hall of the Magi. Approaching the reception desk in the main offices, he said, “I need to speak with the Magus Supreme on an urgent matter.”
“He's quite busy—”
“And the matter is quite urgent, as I said,” Rochus cut in. “A matter of necromancy.”
The man behind the desk blanched, and honestly, what kind of idiot was he that it had taken Rochus stating the obvious before he took it seriously? He waited impatiently as the man slipped behind the heavy, ebony double doors that led to the Supreme's private office. After a couple of minutes, the man returned and motioned for Rochus to proceed.
The office was cool and dark when he entered, the door shutting behind him with a soft, muted bang. Incense drifted faintly on the air, sandalwood and a faint burned smell. Song cawed softly on his left shoulder, Silence moving restlessly on his right. Across the room, seated behind an enormous table overburdened with papers, books, and other miscellany, sat a man with thick gray hair and a closely trimmed gray beard. His face was sharply cut, giving him a severe look even when he was pleased about something.
Though at present, he most certainly was not pleased about anything. “What do you want, Rochus?”
“I no longer merit pleasantries?” Rochus drawled.
“They're wasted on you,” the Supreme retorted, but the barest hint of smile briefly flickered across his face. “I would have thought a sudden marriage enough to keep anyone busy.”
“That is actually related to what I'm doing here,” Rochus replied. “Landau—my new husband—claims he's sent ten petitions for a necromancer but none ever came and your office has no record of his requests. Getting sloppy in your old age, Uncle Meyer?”
Meyer snorted. “Yes, but not about my work. We've received no petitions, which means they're going astray long before they reach me. If I were you, I'd have a word with the Megrow offices on your way to your new home—assuming you're traveling with him and not flouncing off back to your tower.”
“It's not a tower.”
“It's tall, circular, and melodramatic for no reason except to be melodramatic. It's a tower,” Meyer retorted, casting Rochus a droll look. “That it's something of a family heirloom does not excuse it from being such.”
Rochus rolled his eyes. “Do you know of any reason, magic or otherwise, that anyone would have an interest in Rothenberg Kill?”
Pursing his lips, Meyer leaned back in his seat and clasped his hands in his lap. His eyes were a brilliant spring green, the mark of flora magi. “No current reason,” he said at last. “Rothenberg Kill used to have a magi crystal mine, but it was bled dry at least fifty years ago. Whole place sort of faded off after that, people moving on to better places. All that remains is your little dragon and a bunch of dusty farmers, a village or two. His father was no one to trifle with, drove off most everyone. The only one who cares about them is the tax collector. If there's some other reason, and that's related to the lost petitions like you seem to think, I can't imagine what it would be. I think it's just a matter of lazy or stupid magi that I clearly should have been informed about sooner. If that proves to be the case, let me know at once.”
“Yes, why waste Hands and money when you can have me do their job for free?” Rochus replied, Song cawing loudly enough to make Meyer flinch. He waved Meyer off when he started to reply. “I'll let you know. Thank you for the help.”
Meyer sighed and rose. “I do hope all this turns out well for you, Rochus. Whatever my flippant remarks, I do worry about you out there all alone in my brother's moldering old tower.”
“You needn't worry about me,” Rochus replied. “I've always been content with my tower and my pets.”
“Yes, your little dead miscreants,” Meyer said, eyeing Song, who cawed at him again. “I can tell when you're being a smartass, bird, don't think I won't pluck all those feathers of yours and turn them into a hat.”
Rochus laughed and gave Meyer a hug as he came around the desk. “I'm sure it would be a handsome hat, but I would not be pleased with you. Take care, Uncle. I'll let you know if anything is amiss with your staff.”
“Be careful.” Meyer clasped his shoulders, gave him a gentle shake. “And congratulations, I only heard about it a few minutes before I arrived. I was going to come find you shortly. If I'd known sooner I would have attended the ceremony.”
“It happened while you were still in bed, so I doubt it,” Rochus retorted. “Tell Mother and Father I said hello. Don't mention the marriage: it's going to be annulled the moment this mess is sorted out.”
Meyer gave him a look. “No harm in trying to make something of it. You could do worse than a dragon. From what I know of Landau, he's wealthy, hard-working, fiercely loyal… certainly the matter should not have been so crudely forced, but I've seen you do stupider for far less.”
“Thanks,” Rochus replied, though he couldn't really argue with the truth. “Good day to you, Uncle. I'll visit longer when next I return.”
Meyer snorted softly. “I don't believe you, but the thought is appreciated. I mean it about being careful.” He hugged Rochus one last time, then walked him to the door and bid him a final farewell.
Next Rochus visited the Office of Records and Deeds to speak with the Land Supreme, Lord Viktor Hoffman, a man all bone and mean little eyes. After Rochus's father had died, when Rochus was still a swaddled babe, many a person had tried to coax his mother into marriage. She had barely a pence to her name, but owned a strip of land that could be extremely valuable in the right hands. Hoffman had, according to his mother, been the least pleasant of those marriage options.
His stepfather had been the most surprising, a lord from a foreign land who'd chosen to leave it after a disastrous marriage of his own and had come to live with his brother Meyer. His parents currently lived all the way to the south on a private island, bought with money his mother had earned after she'd sold her land to the highest bidder and promptly invested it with a ruthlessness no one but his stepfather had apparently anticipated.
“Good day, magus,” Hoffman said. “Always a pleasant surprise. How can I help you?”
“Good day,” Rochus replied evenly. “I am recently married, as I'm sure you've heard.”
Something flickered across Hoffman's face, there and gone too quickly to interpret. Contempt, maybe. “Yes, magus. Congratulations.”
“I wanted to learn more about Rothenberg Kill. My husband has rambled about it in that way those who adore something do, but doesn't have much in the way of facts and I'd like to be prepared. My uncle recommended I speak to you.”
Hoffman's bored demeanor eased slightly at the mention of Meyer. “Did he? Well, I can hardly disappoint his lordship, but I'm afraid there's not much to tell.” His expression turned bland again, but it seemed more contrived this time: his eyes weren't bored at all, but sharp, pensive. “Rothenberg Kill used to be quite the territory back when they were mining magi crystal, but that dried up fifty-seven years ago, and since then it's a forgotten little corner snugged against the foothills of the Creiamore Mountains along the Midwestern edge. Nothing to it but farmland, I believe. Hasn't changed hands in seven generations. I can pull the file if you like.”
“No, not at all. I suppose that close to the mountains I should be prepared for more snow than we see here. Thank you for your time, my lord. Good day to you.”
“Good day, magus.”
Heading off, Rochus visited half a dozen other offices and people, but all told him the same thing: there was no reason for anyone to care
about Rothenberg Kill.
In Rochus's experience, when so many people declared something was that boring, it was usually anything but. The question, then, was: what made Rothenberg valuable that nobody was admitting to, or that only a particular somebody or somebodies knew about?
By the time he reached the square at the appointed hour, he was tired, hungry, and frustrated. At least the storm had passed. Song cawed irritably on his shoulder, and Memory was sitting on Fury's back, sprawled across the saddle like she owned it, tail lashing with irritation.
“Yes, yes, we've all had a day that could use improving. Look on the positive side: we're going to a place you've never been, which means there are plenty of victims to fall for your tricks and provide easy prey.”
Though that reminded him, he had no idea what he would be doing for his own sustenance. Rothenberg Kill seemed like it would have plenty of farmers, but if Tilo had never seen a necromancer, it was doubtful his tenants had, which meant they weren't going to take kindly to some strange, pale-skinned figure with black teeth asking for them to bleed their animals so he could drink. He pinched his nose, feeling a headache just at the thought of it.
Might be better to buy some animals and bleed them himself at Tilo's manor. He'd done it before, though he disliked doing it because most animals were nervous around him and weren't inclined to change their minds after he was done with them.
Thoughts of blood and Tilo resurrected memories he'd tried all day to bury, but just like thoughts of fucking him, thoughts of drinking Tilo's blood left him feeling sick, old, and miserable. He really should have known better, but Goddess, what he wouldn't give for that night to have been genuine on both their parts.
He sighed and fussed with Fury's saddle, pausing briefly to pet Memory before he dumped her off it. She yowled at him and swiped at his robes, then flounced off to bathe herself.
As the criers faded off, Tilo came out of the castle and down the steps, looking sad and faded but cautiously hopeful as he saw Rochus.
“Good day,” Rochus said levelly. “Shall we be off?”