Malak would be taken away from Cara, and the first threat dealt with.
The lack of a weapon wasn’t ideal, but Varda hadn’t brought her axe along when all she’d set out to do was have a drink with Nic, and ask him—discreetly—about Nita. When was she coming back? Was she safe wherever Frank had sent her? Unfortunately, Varda had arrived just as the harlot slipped out of the castle. She’d catch up with Nic another time. He’d understand, and her questions could hold. For now.
Malak’s path circled the rear of the keep. The walkways weren’t covered here. How would she explain it away if all her clothes were soaked with rain? She bent to pick up a wrapped bundle concealed in a crate. A green cloak. Like those the archers wore. Prepared after all. She slung it about her shoulders and covered her head with the hood, then continued through a small gate to the rear of the keep, up the hill.
Where were the guards? This was ill.
After her vision, Varda had been shaky and unable to sleep. Gates without protection certainly wouldn’t help with that. Ash and damnation, what if Collinefort was attacked from the rear? Was that what Vendla had meant?
Later. For now, her mission was to catch Malak doing what she wasn’t supposed to.
Varda turned back for a weapon. The training grounds were deserted; the soldiers had gone to the cooking fires or to their beds. The weapon stands were bursting with crossbows. Only crossbows. Better than nothing. Varda picked the one with the fullest water tank. She strapped the tank to her thigh, then selected a quiver of bolts and slung it over her back.
Now, where was that blasted harlot? She left through the gate and scanned the hillside. The earlier sunshine and current misty drizzle played to Malak’s favour. Paired with the green cloak, she blended into the snow-free grass, and the ever-dripping rain obscured her movement. Malak glanced over her shoulder, and Varda smiled. There.
As much as Malak’s constant peering behind her helped Varda to follow her, it soon became an impediment. When Malak turned around, Varda had little other choice than to flatten herself to the grass and pray the rain hid her. By Taranis’s grace, Malak seemed oblivious to her follower.
Varda’s muscles burned after a while. She wore leather armour, not the plate, but dropping to the wet, ice-cold earth only to scurry upright so as to not lose her prey wasn’t an exercise her body was used to.
Luckily, covert acts required cover, and Malak soon entered a forested patch. Ducking behind a shrub was much easier than dropping to her stomach.
Here, the unmelted snow crunched under her feet. Certain patches were slippery and compact, while others left obvious boot-marks. As far as she could, Varda tried to step in the footsteps already tracking the snow. If the gods were good, the low light would conceal those prints she had no choice to leave.
When it became apparent Malak would stop, Varda climbed a tall tree. Good thing she’d chosen the leather today.
The last time she’d been up in a tree had been to whittle Ylva’s ship. Only to have Frank take it from her later and call her a liar in front of his council. What had he done with the ship? Probably destroyed it, tossed it in a fire as though it meant nothing. If she’d just told him about Ylva, he might have understood what it symbolised, but no, she was too stubborn. Still, she wasn’t the only stubborn one. Frank’s mood swings were intense and turned him into a raving stranger.
She inhaled, then refocussed on Malak. For once, the crossbow was useful. With the scope pressed to her eye, Varda could almost count the hairs on the bloody harlot’s face.
She itched to pull the trigger and put a bolt through Malak’s forehead. Who would know if she killed her here? Who’d even know Malak was gone? She was supposed to be in the castle, after all, like she’d been the last time. Nobody would suspect Varda, who had so publicly denounced the weapon on various occasions and wasn’t half as good a shot as any of the Mordians. This could be an untraceable crime. The gods would know, but would they punish Varda for a murder that would aid her people, premeditated or not? Aray and Anath would relish in the chaos and death.
A man clad in black sneaked up on Malak. She jumped back and clutched her chest.
He laughed, then lowered his hood.
Another Sudriahn. Didn’t they have some kind of religious rule about always being truthful, transparent, and living with honour? Sudriahns didn’t often engage in matters of clandestine nature, yet here were two of them, doing just that. Strange. Had Sudriah changed so much during the war that they now used spies?
All that time spent hiding on their ships proved to be a great disadvantage, where information was concerned.
Malak and the other Sudriahn spoke for a minute, then Malak handed him an envelope. He passed her a glass vial full of greenish liquid in return. If only Varda could hear this exchange. Whatever they said must be valuable.
Malak considered the vial and nodded, then turned. The man studied her walking away, licking his lips. He stalked after Malak, who was once again oblivious that she was followed.
Varda hadn’t heard the exchange, but if she shot this man and brought him before Frank, that would be undeniable proof of what Malak had done. Even better—if she brought him to the keep alive, he’d be able to confirm it with his own tongue, and maybe tell them why. The gods wouldn’t punish her for that.
Varda aimed as Frank had taught her then fired.
The bolt veered to the left of the target, through a shrub. Missed. The man stopped and turned in the direction where the bolt must have landed. He stood there for a second before he turned and ran back into the bushes.
Anath’s axe, of all the times she could have fumbled a shot. She should have paid more attention, should have learned to fire the blazing crossbow properly. When would she have a chance like this again?
A clear vision of Frank’s I-told-you-so face filled her mind—that smirk, that twinkle in his eyes. The only thing worse was his face in rage. The way he’d looked at her that day when she’d first accused Malak.
If she accused the harlot again, Varda would need proof. No one could know of her failure to get that proof today—she refused to be embarrassed again. Vendla certainly couldn’t know Varda had failed. Her anger was much fiercer than Frank’s.
***
Dark had fallen by the time Varda returned the crossbow and quiver to the weapon stand. A shadow detached from the wall and slunk closer.
Nita. She beckoned with a finger.
Thank all fourteen gods, she’s safe. Varda arched an eyebrow and tried to approach with confident steps, but her heartbeat galloped. A strange roiling came over her stomach. Had Nita been summoned by Varda’s recurring thoughts, or had she been following her?
“You’re back,” Varda said.
“We arrived this morning.” Nita’s smile was all tooth. “I advise you to aim better next time.”
She knew. Vanth’s balls, her failure wouldn’t stay a secret now. Varda put her hands on her hips. “You followed me.”
“I did.”
“Why?”
“I have a special interest in you.” Nita winked. “Come on, let’s go inside. I know a place where we can talk.”
“You know too many places.”
Nita raised both hands. “Comes with the occupation.”
She led Varda to a service entrance into the basement of the castle. These halls were flooded with yellow light that lent the place a fake sense of warmth. An echoing wind had been trapped in Collinefort castle in ages past and spread shivers wherever it went. In the basement, the cold was amplified. Staff members and soldiers lived here, and their needs were far lower than that of the king or his guests. Only fuel leftover from heating the upper floors was used down here.
Even so, the upper floors were always cool. The trapped draft spread its cheer everywhere in the castle. Varda’s tent wasn’t half bad when compared with this.
Nita produced a key from a chain that disappeared between her breasts and unlocked the door to one of the rooms. She waved at Varda to enter.
A large table stood in the centre of this room, filled from edge to edge with chemical compounds, ground herbs, and medicinal containers. Scribbled notes stuck to some of the containers, while lists, formulas, and sheets of unused paper littered the table and area around it. Balls of crumpled paper had been tossed to one corner and resembled the aftermath of an avalanche.
A couch and a blanket, a group of stools, and overfull shelves completed the room.
“My workroom,” Nita said.
Frank had sent Nita to test the cure for the plague in that outpost, but they’d been gone for only a week. Could she have tested the cure, and have had conclusive findings so soon?
“Lost in thought,” Nita said.
Varda scratched her chin. “I’m just wondering if you could have really made such progress that you could be back already.”
“Oh, you haven’t heard.” Nita sighed. “We were attacked and lost the outpost.”
“Are you all right?” No need to sound so concerned, Ahlström.
“I’m fine. Shaken, but uninjured. I know it might sound callous when so many soldiers died, but I’m most upset that I lost my notes and equipment. What remained here is the stuff I’ve been using for other medicines. I was planning to open a new apothecary and needed supplies for that.”
“So you lost everything concerning the plague?”
“Basically, yes. I’ll start over in the morning.”
Quite the loss. Time was precious, and too little of it remained until the weather changed and the fighting resumed in full. The resistance couldn’t afford to go head to head with the emperor while they were at risk of contracting the plague.
Nothing to be done about that. Matters Varda could influence were at hand. “Why are we here?”
“We can speak freely in this room. It’s safe.” Nita sat on the couch and patted the space next to her. “Come, sit. Be comfortable.”
Varda spread her legs and crossed her arms. “How do I know there are no secret places in the walls?”
“There are few passages left in the basement.” Nita gestured at faint lines on the stones. “See the water damage? The basement floods every other year. The passages gave the water new ways to enter more rooms, and when the flooding was worst, caused more damage. To prevent that, the old Intelligence people closed off the passages and listening holes. Some have been opened again, but there are none that lead here. I checked personally.”
A good enough answer. What could Varda do about anyone listening in anyway? She had more pressing questions to ask. “Why were you following me?”
“With everything going on here, the last thing the resistance or Ehrdia needs is a Dvaran maiden-heir, the last of her kind, to be assassinated on international soil. Pointy thought it would be a good idea to make sure nothing happens to you.”
“Have you seen me?” Varda raised her hands. “Who of these little Mordians could face me?”
“In one-on-one combat, none of them, but with a crossbow? Most would fare better than you did today.”
“Point taken. So, you’re my protective detail.”
“Something like that, yes. With Clarity here, we can’t be sure you won’t just be shot for sport.”
“And you can stop her.”
“I can try, or at least be a witness if I can’t stop her.”
Varda chuckled. Honest, as always. “I feel so safe.”
Nita also laughed. “That old bitch has done too many things for me to guarantee anything.”
“Like what?”
“That’s a story for another day. Are you just going to stand there? If you don’t want to sit with me, take one of those stools. Or sit on the floor. You seemed to be able to get low on the ground just fine earlier.”
Varda leaned against a wall and studied Nita. “Are you planning to tell anyone what you saw today?”
“Only if you want me to.”
“Why didn’t you intervene?”
“It was too much fun watching you balance on a branch. You’re nimble for your stature.” Nita ran the side of her forefinger up and down her neck. “Look, all you need is something to prove to the king that he’s being deceived. You don’t necessarily need to leave the keep for that. If you asked nicely, I could help you.”
“I couldn’t possibly. I’m already in your debt.”
Nita caressed her collarbone. “I’d like you as deep in my debt as I can get.”
Warmth pooled in Varda’s stomach. “To what end?”
“Fun.” Nita bit her lip, and shook her head. “I’m not supposed to, but I like you. Pointy said to keep an eye on you, intervene when you’re in trouble, but only if I’d walk away alive. Those were my orders. If he knows what I’ve told you, he’ll put someone else in my place. It’s never a good idea to get intimately involved with the person you’re to guard, you know?”
“So you know where he is.”
A flicker of something flashed across Nita’s face. Doubt? Concern? “I honestly don’t have a clue where he is.”
Had Nita ever seemed quite as sincere? Something was going on behind that smiling façade. “And you’re telling me this because?”
“Maybe you’ll repay your debt by keeping my secret.” She rested her cheek on her shoulder. “And maybe, once we’ve gotten to know each other a little, and taken down Malak, we can have some fun.”
Hadn’t she thought this very thing almost every waking moment for too long? “Maybe.”
“So we’ll work together?”
Varda nibbled on the tip of her tongue. “Yes.”
***
Varda slapped open Olaf’s tent.
Sweet smoke formed a cloud at the tent’s roof, and more tendrils rose upwards from the coals and herbs glowing in a brass brazier in the middle of the floor. The air was thick, hazy. Her nose and throat burned with every breath, as though the stuff ignited her from within.
Olaf sat close to the brazier, half-naked, knees pulled up to his chest. He’d been smoking multiple times a day in the recent past—definitely trying to make up for their time at sea. He swayed front to back, front to back. His eyes were rolled up into the sockets so only the sclera was visible, his mouth open. A drop of saliva slithered over his lower lip, and glinted orange in the low light. Parts of his talismans poked from between the fingers of one hand, but he held on to Asger with the other.
He stopped chanting to look in her direction, unfocused. He saw right through her. Drunk on the herbs and proximity to the gods.
Asger stepped away, and Olaf came back to himself, piece by piece. “I saw a rooster with a fish in its beak. The fish squirmed, alive, but fading, fading. From the east and south, armies prepared for battle. I could not look at them directly—their faces and standards blurred when I tried. I knew they were there but caught no more than glimpses of movement from the corner of my eye.
“The armies crept closer and closer. Waited. And the rooster didn’t know, and the fish still squirmed in its beak.
“Then, from the shadow of the rooster ascended a dragon, glittering in gold. It circled and circled, then sounded its mighty roar, and blew out great tongues of fire. The world was ablaze, the world was kindling, and everything disappeared in the smoke.”
The hair on Varda’s neck pricked up. “What happened to the rooster and fish?”
“They were shrouded in smoke, but the fish grew fangs and bit the rooster’s neck,” Olaf said. “Other than that, I don’t know.”
Chapter 31
Cara dreamt she was running. Pointy waited for her with open arms, but each time she came close, he shifted farther away, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t reach him. She woke strangely breathless, her pulse too fast and her skin covered in a cold sheen. This was the second night in a row she’d had that dream.
Judging by the fragment of light from the window, it was about two o’clock in the morning. Cara rose, and paced in front of the painting of Marceline.
No wonder she was upset. Pointy hadn’t shown up
for their meeting. Something was wrong with him—it had to be. Why else would he have missed the meeting? Had Celestine captured him? She must’ve. But what if that wasn’t it? What if Pointy had just gone deeper into hiding than before?
Cara’s muscles were wooden. How could she possibly know what to do, while stuck without information in this damn prison? As though that wasn’t bad enough, Nathan was back, also within Frank and Celestine’s reach. His life was probably in danger. Someone needed to warn him, and someone needed to find Pointy.
Did she dare enter the passages after last time? The echoes from behind the painting came with more frequency, more urgency, as though the passages were under constant patrol.
She froze at the sound of a key entering the lock of her bedroom door and scurried back into bed a split second before the lock clicked.
She closed her eyes and faked regular breathing. Her heart hammered.
The frame creaked as the door shut, and the footfall was too heavy to belong to Malak. Who then? Celestine?
Her every muscle shrieked that she run, her skin prickled, but she remained still in fake sleep. No, Celestine was too light. Couldn’t be her.
Someone shook her shoulder. “Cara.”
She frowned up at Frank. What did he want?
He held a finger to his lips and motioned for her to rise. The strict king had been replaced by her beloved brother, his eyes round, hands trembling. What was going on?
Against her instincts, she did what he wanted and took the hand he offered.
He held her hand in a tight grip, palm sweaty, and led her out of her room into another down the hall from hers, then shifted a painting to open a panel on the wall. Pitch blackness awaited inside. So, he either didn’t know about the entrance behind the painting in her room, or he didn’t want her to know about it.
Cold clamped around her stomach.
‘Not a sound,’ he mouthed.
Cara nodded and allowed him to lead her into the dark. She knew the first part of the path, but lost count of their paces and the turns they’d taken after about fifteen minutes. From there, the passages meshed in her mind. Her legs ached when Frank stopped to open another panel. They exited on the other side of the castle, near a narrow servant’s stairwell.
A Trial of Sparks & Kindling (Fall of the Mantle Book 2) Page 24