“Of course,” he said distractedly. Disappointment rose up in his throat. He’d been expecting news from Rusaen Gorbavich, an infamous assassin who he’d recruited and paid a handsome sum of gold to. He was to send word when Horace Dewn had been removed from this world, and that word should have come days ago.
He left his worries where he stood and went over to the bed, where the women had laid his ensemble. He untied his tunic and his pants. “Choose for me what you think a king should wear. Mind you, I’m no king—not anymore—but I want to project power. Do you understand?”
“Of course, my lord,” said one of the women.
As the women toiled about, shaking their heads approvingly and disapprovingly at the various articles before them, Horace absentmindedly removed his tunic. And then his pants. And his stockings. He stripped himself right down to his skivvies and observed his naked body.
He’d grown soft, pudgy in places. He had a pouch of flab hanging over his belly and his thighs were chunky. The harshness of the North had always kept his cravings for good food and delectable sweets in check, but Haeglin had a bounty of edibles so utterly delicious and equally poor for the body.
Bare and naked, he looked like no king. He’d have to change that, soon.
BASTION STROLLED into the Grand Hall as the sun outside waned and shed its brilliant yellow flares for more muted oranges and pinks. Those colors were in stark contrast to Bastion’s loose-fitting black tunic and matching breeches. Golden buttons were sewn into the tunic, and silvery threads swam down the arms.
“Bastion,” Olyssi said, raising to him a thin-stemmed glass of red wine. She sat at the head of the Great Table upon the dais, flanked by two advisers who intended to appear as distinguished as possible. At the opposite end sat the queen of Plorgus, Maya Plommen, and various dignitaries of Plorgus.
“Apologies for my tardiness, my queen,” Bastion said, bowing his head to Olyssi. “I’ve grown fat, and your poor seamstresses were forced to deal with this unfortunate fact. Lady Plommen, it’s a pleasure seeing you here.”
Dressed in colorful silks, Maya Plommen put her pink lips to the rim of her glass. She took a sip of white wine and held it in her mouth for a moment. Then she smiled weakly at Bastion, but said nothing.
Olyssi flung her hand toward one of her advisers. “Move,” she snapped.
The man took her order with grace—or in Bastion’s mind, pathetic submissiveness—shifting down a seat.
“Come, sit by me,” Olyssi said, patting the now-empty chair. She was wearing her customary fire-gilded armor, a crossbow at one side of her waist and a sword at the other. She prided herself on being the might and fury of Haeglin; prissiness and frills might have suited some queens, but not Olyssi Gravendeer.
Bastion had long wondered if this was her true personality, or yet another one of her many insecurities.
As Bastion walked past the adviser who’d given up his seat, he threw his hand over the man’s shoulder and grabbed his half-empty glass of wine. “I believe this is mine.”
The man swallowed and nodded. “Of course, my lord.”
Bastion concealed his smile. By rank, he held no sway or power over this man. They were equals. And yet he was already recognized as the man’s superior. He had climbed quickly since his arrival in Haeglin seven months ago.
Perhaps too quickly. But he wouldn’t slow down now. He couldn’t; idling the game is a rather difficult thing to do when the pieces are already in place.
“My lords and ladies,” announced Custodian Yvondre, one of the last holdovers from Raegon’s reign. “Here arrives the first course, a plate of succulent meats dredged in flour and cooked in a pot of boiling oils and crushed garlic.”
Servants marched in, each carrying one small silver plate. They moved nimbly and elegantly, careful to never so much as touch the esteemed lords and ladies.
“The sauce,” Yvondre explained, “is a mixture of mustard and red pepper. It is tangy and spicy. The second course shall arrive soon.”
“Pardon my eagerness,” Maya said, delicately unfolding a linen cloth with the tips of her fingers, “but I don’t believe we need to wait until we’re bloated to discuss the reasons for my visit.”
Olyssi’s smile, which had been a semipermanent fixture since her plate was laid in front of her, suddenly faded. She looked to Bastion, who gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. “As my adviser”—she unraveled her hand toward Bastion—“has already informed you, Haeglin is prepared to negotiate the deforestation rights of the Emerald Grove.”
Those words sounded as convincing as a prisoner with bruises and black eyes saying his captors had treated him with respect and had not in any way abused him.
“It is Plorgus’s right to harvest the grove,” Maya said. “Negotiations are hardly necessary.”
Bastion saw a scowl forming on Olyssi’s face. He kicked her under the table.
“But,” Maya added, “in the interest of peace with one another, I have come here with negotiations in mind. Plorgus will send a wagonful of gold to Haeglin. A one-time payment.”
“How big of a wagon?” Olyssi asked. Bastion was impressed by her uncharacteristic display of wit.
“Enough to carry five hundred coins,” Maya said.
Olyssi scoffed. “Five hundred coins wouldn’t even buy me new boots for my Jackals. Plorgus will pay a percentage of its profits from the sale of emerald wood.”
Maya sipped her wine. “At least I started in a position where negotiations could continue. You’ve not. Although that’s not entirely unexpected. You are, after all, a young queen.”
Olyssi threw her fists onto the table. “And I won’t be taken advantage of,” she spat.
Now comes the characteristic Olyssi Gravendeer, Bastion thought. He looked to the far wall at the very end of the Great Hall. From there to where Maya Plommen sat measured sixty-two feet and three inches. Bastion knew this because he had measured the distance several days ago.
“You’re getting angry about something that’s not happening,” Maya said. “Your father would be most disappointed.”
The fires of fury sparked in Olyssi’s eyes. “If you dare—once more—talk of my father, I will end this grand feast in grand fashion.”
“Ladies,” Bastion boomed, his voice carrying like thunder over plains.
The meeting had spiraled out of control even faster than he had thought it would, although that wasn’t the reason for his explosive voice. That deep boom was a signal. A cue.
“I expect negotiations to be tense, but mannerly,” Bastion said. “I advise you, Lady Plommen, to stop being so damn stiff. And you, my queen, stop taking offense where there is none to be found.”
Olyssi’s jaw flinched, and her eyes narrowed on Bastion. But the former king of the North barely paid her any mind. Oh, sure, he looked at her, knew she was likely infuriated with him. But his attention was best paid to other doings in the Great Hall.
From the corner of his eye, he focused on the far wall. He saw—and only because he knew precisely where to look—a tiny chunk of stone removed from the wall. A droplet of evening sunlight filtered in momentarily, replaced by a black tip.
Twenty-five days ago, Bastion had learned Maya’s height. One week later he had learned Olyssi’s. The queen of Plorgus was significantly taller than Olyssi, which was convenient given the seating arrangements. If one were to position oneself beside Maya and peer straight ahead, where the Great Hall came to an end and met a wall of granite, one would see a black tip intersect almost perfectly with the spot between Maya’s eyes.
Almost perfectly because when things fly, they also fall. Bastion had accounted for this.
“If you do not wish to continue the negotiations,” Maya said, and her neck snapped back.
A cloud of silence hung in the hall as heads turned and minds raced. When the realization of what had just transpired fell upon them all, the cloud burst like a leaky dam.
There were screams and cries. There were screeches of chairs slid
ing across the floor, pushed away from the table. Maya’s guardsmen jumped to their feet, swords unsheathed. They formed a wall around her.
Jackals rushed to Olyssi’s aid, emerging from behind pillars and hidden rooms. They ushered her out of the Hall, doors slamming in their wake.
Bastion heard her shrieks through the walls. “My gods! Oh, my gods!”
It was then that Bastion knew with no lingering doubts that Olyssi Gravendeer had killed her father twelve months ago. Because when she encountered a true, unexpected murder, she reacted exactly like Bastion had thought she would.
“Seal the exits,” Bastion ordered, calm and composed. “You,” he said, pointing a finger at a Jackal, “get Savant Freda now. You and you, help these men”—he nodded his chin at Maya’s guards—“with whatever they need.”
“She’s dead,” came a bristly voice. Bastion put the voice to a man with a mop of gray hair who was dressed in a crimson tunic. He’d introduced himself as the chancellor of the crown when Bastion had gone to Plorgus to arrange this meeting. “This… is an assassination.”
“Not one that I was forewarned of,” Bastion said.
“And your queen? Is she also so innocent?”
“Did her crowing and baying sound like that of a guilty wench to you?”
Seething with suspicion, the chancellor said, “I don’t believe you. There will be payment for this, and it will come with your kingdom’s blood.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Looks like a fookin’ ancient town,” Tig said, brushing snow from granite blocks. “Shoddy wall, though, if you ask me. What’s it stoppin’, ants and mice?”
Adom’s head touched his shoulders as he looked high into a tree. “That’s bizarre. There’s an apple up there. And another, and three more. This damned tree is full of apples.”
“Imagine that,” Valterik said, annoyed, which had been his permanent state since entering the Ancient Lands.
“And this one’s full of oranges,” Elaya said. “They’re frozen, but our body heat will thaw them as we walk.” She was thankful for that, given they had only two horses remaining. The journey to Coraen would be far more difficult than she’d anticipated.
“Yeah, no thanks,” Kaun said. “I’m not eating fruit that has no business growing here. Sounds like sorcery to me.”
Elaya reached for a low-hanging branch and gave it a tug. It seemed fairly strong, enough to support her weight at least. “This land’s old, Kaun,” she said, pulling herself up. She swung a leg over and sat there for a moment, deciding on the best path up to the oranges. “It’s not like what we know back home.”
“That’s my point. Apples are just fine when you come across a patch in the lowlands, but here? You bite into one and maybe, I dunno, a snake jumps out and devours you whole.”
“That seems unlikely,” Paya said. “But this place is strange. Look at the snowfall. It’s not nearly as deep here as it is right outside the wall.”
Elaya looked into the endless field of snow and ice beyond. “She’s right. It looks as if started snowing here only a couple days ago. Let’s forage these fruits and move on. It’s best not to linger among the odd and peculiar for too long, and that goes double when you’re in the Ancient Lands.”
“Wonder if Lavery passed this way,” Adom said.
“I don’t care which way he goes,” Elaya said. “So long as he’s at Coraen when we arrive. Valterik, what is this place? Have you seen it before?”
“No,” he said unconvincingly, “I’ve no recollection.”
CATALI’S EYES OPENED. Immediately she felt a sharp pain in her temples, a pulsing ache behind her eye, and a swelling in her jaw. Also, she was bloody tired. She wagered the only way she could have possibly felt worse was if she had also downed three skins of wine before sleeping.
She closed her eyes and tried to rest for a while longer, but came to realize the reason she’d woken up in the first place was the pervasive smell of smoke.
“What’s burning?” she asked Nape.
He didn’t answer.
“Nape,” she said groggily, “what’s burning? You better not be sleeping. You were supposed to be on watch.” She flipped onto her side to look for Nape. He wasn’t there.
Catali sat up alertly, taking in her surroundings. Nape wasn’t on this side or that side, or over there. He wasn’t thataway, either. He was, in fact, nowhere to be found.
This mildly concerned Catali. Considerably concerned her, actually. But she’d not admit, not even to herself, that she worried about Nape. Plus, her attention had been taken elsewhere, namely to the smoldering city between the Bluffs.
“Shit,” she muttered, looking into the city with an arm across her forehead to deflect the morning sun. “It wasn’t burning last night.” She didn’t know what exactly that meant, but probably it wasn’t anything good.
The small fire she’d built to keep warm and cook a squirrel Nape had miraculously captured the night before had died out into a layer of warm orange embers. She moved her hands over the embers and thought for a while, hopeful Nape would return in the meantime.
He did not. Maybe he went to forage for food, she thought. That seemed unlike him, but beating the hell out of a demon-looking creature with a branch also seemed unlike him. Maybe she’d underestimated Nape. Probably she had; that was a tendency of hers, to view others as weaker than they truly were. This was especially true of those who annoyed her.
She noticed his bag missing, which gave credence to the possibility he was out there looking for supplies. After nibbling on some stale bread and wetting her throat with equally stale water, Catali decided she’d do the same but keep the hill within eyeshot. When Nape returned, so would she, and they’d decide their next step together.
This plan rather unraveled when she saw footprints leading off the hill toward the city. Her nostrils flared. “No… no, you wouldn’t, would you?” she whispered.
Down the hillside she went, through spotty grass stalks topped with crowns of fluffy white petals and firm conical buds. Dense brush met her before long, and she lost track of the footprints. But a swath of grass and weeds were bent, as if someone had trounced through a short time ago.
Catali continued on, her path bringing her closer to the city, where thick gray smoke billowed high from rooftops. The smell was intense, sometimes choking her of breath.
The brush receded, emptying Catali out into a plot of reddish clay. She picked up the footprints again. There were more than just a pair, now. There were hundreds, thousands. She followed them not with her own feet but with her eyes, into the city itself.
Despite the mildness of the morning air, Catali felt cold. It’s a common enough sensation to have when you’re all alone in the wilderness, but she’d never cared about loneliness before. She neither enjoyed it nor hated it. Except now, when she could have used a friend.
The city before her stretched between the twin bluffs, a maze of haphazardly placed buildings that had served over time as cottages and inns and taverns and shops and barracks and armories. Catali didn’t know what they were now, besides smoldering and empty.
Well, she hoped they were empty.
Her eyes climbed the Bluffs, their bronze shales glinting in the sun. Maybe, she thought, Nape had seen the people—the things—that had trounced through here, and he had come to investigate. Maybe he’d crouched low in the brush behind her, peering at them through blades of grass.
Or maybe—probably—he’d gone right into the damn city, because he was too curious for his own good. Whether before or after they’d arrived didn’t matter; she knew it was unlikely he survived. If he’d gone in prior to their arrival—whoever they were, though deep down she couldn’t help but envision an army made up entirely of more like the fiend she’d encountered in the woods—he was certainly dead. If he went in after, he’d be unable to stay long due to the smoke. He would have retreated back to the campsite atop the grassy knoll.
With a deep breath, Catali resolved to move on from Na
pe, considering him dead. He had become a friend in the end, but she preferred logic to emotions. So what was her next step? She had to locate the Conclave and find out more about the injections she carried. If the Conclave had indeed recently called this city home, that meant she had to take the passage between the Bluffs—straight through the smoking city—and track them down.
She just hoped she’d find only the Conclave and not whatever perversion seemed to be hunting them.
Into the maw of Fennis Valley Catali went. Into the dusty, old and now-burning city she went, shirt pulled up over her nose and mouth. Flakes of ash and embers swirled around her and littered the dirt roads. Charred frames of houses and shops surrounded her. Roofs of roasting thatch coughed smoke into the air, and a heap of collapsed wood simmered ten paces away, its core orange and hissing.
Catali hacked like a sick dog as she breathed in smoke through her shirt. She moved swiftly through the city, keeping to the main street that was partially collapsed, presumably either from time or—for a far more haunting thought—from the thousands of feet that had obviously marched across it recently.
She coughed and spat up, and coughed again. Most of her journey through the city was made while bent over, hacking up a lung.
Her stomach gurgled and burbled and churned. She pulled down her shirt, not wanting to vomit inside of it, and waited for the contents of her last meal—stale bread and water, yum!—to spew forth. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. It would soon, though, especially if she didn’t get a move on. But she remained idle, staring at a thin structure that looked like a wooden obelisk. It was anchored against the bluff.
Unlike every other building in the city, this one did not smoke. Flames weren’t licking out of its windows or climbing high on its roof. Its exterior was charred, so it had, at one point, been set ablaze. But the dark splotches that painted it looked as if someone had doused the fire with buckets of water.
Nape, she thought. Why would he be in there, though? And how would he have come into possession of buckets, much less water? Still, if not him, then who? Maybe that wasn’t a question she should have posed with much excitement, but if someone was still here, she’d have some answers. Hopefully.
Reign of Gods (Sorcery and Sin Book 2) Page 19